Your Day in Great Detail
Today, I was off work. I work full-time retail, so my days off tend to be irregular, which makes them feel like little islands of paradise surrounded by the vastness of the rest of the week. Lately, I have felt a little like I have been wasting my time off. It is so damn cold (-20°C as I write), “Retail Christmas” and the subsequent catch-up is only just out of the way, and as a result it has become habit to just go home and do nothing. But not today!
I have been entitled to apply for Canadian citizenship for over a year, but just haven’t gotten to it. Honestly, I need a life coach. Someone who will punch me in the face until I retreat, bleeding, away from Facebook. Anyone interested? There is no pay and you have to convince me to clean the filth-ridden frying pan. Missing paperwork and a propensity for doing sod all have been standing in the way of making my application. The first step is to update the address on my driving license and health card. After all, I only moved 13 months ago.
I tried to update my identification online. Short story is, it didn’t work because I am a filthy foreigner. In the end, I gave up and decided to go to the nearest Orwellian sounding Service Ontario Centre. In Britain, you go to the nearest Post Office where they offer various government services as well as banking and, probably by now, while-you-wait in vitro fertilisation. Over here, Canada Post does nothing except for sell envelopes and scowl at you, and that is why they are going bankrupt.
Service Ontario offices are harsh, utilitarian places of stark conformity that you might better expect to find in a post-apocalyptic future where desperate survivors of an untreatable virus register their existence despite the indifference of robotic government employees. The lines get so long that there would be no surprise to see Bob Geldof helicopter in throwing sacks of rice at everyone. Queueing at Service Ontario is like queueing at Disney World except that the three-hour wait culminates in someone telling you that you filled in the wrong form and that you have to rejoin the back of the line.
So I almost had a heart-attack when I walked in to the building to see that there was only one person in line ahead of me. As a Brit, I was actually disappointed at the lack of a disorderly queue for me to tut and loudly exhale about.
Skipping home with glee, I slipped on the mushy snow and pulled a muscle in my thigh.
Aside from writing some nonsense or other, and returning to procrastination, that was my day. You’re welcome.