Hell has spilled over, and it’s making you queue. Tilf and Trick visit hell itself.

The sooner everyone gives up on this archaic, draconian snail, dragging it’s vile poisonous trail through everyday life and either evolves into a working, constructive machine, or dies, finally, and with many a flailed limb, the better.

Staffed almost entirely by the afterbirths of leperous baboons.

I can only be talking about the post office.

I had to get my car taxed, which was extra annoying as the post office have delivered my ownership form to…someone. Fuck knows who, but someone. All I know is, I don’t have it. Much sighing and gnashing of teeth, I packed up my bag and off I went to gods waiting room.

I hate it there.

After standing in queue forever, I finally get to the front and get served by Paul.

Great. No, really, brilliant, can’t you see my tears of joy? You can’t? Now that’s funny, oh, wait, no it’s not, I’m not smiling, I’m not weeping tears of joy. I’m seething inside. And only barely keeping it inside.

Paul is a dick. Plain and simple. The guy is everything that’s wrong with the post office. A balding, corpulent, spiteful little Hitler. A guy given by nature piggy eyes filled with suspicion and hatred, lips that would look better on a Japanese water demon and the delightful aroma of mildew, hate and regret. He is an absolute tit everytime I go there.

And he’s rude.

I despise rudeness, there’s simply no need for pointless rudeness. No need at all. He got his job at the devils left hand and was gifted small powers of spiteful revenge on unsuspecting masses. Oh, and doesn’t he just delight in pushing his few powers as far as he can.

If he were female, he’d be that mean ol’ lady in the sweetshop who glares at every child, convinced that they’re suddenly going to develop a taste for theft, arson and probably rape as well. And with that thought, they wouldn’t want to attack someone younger or mildly attractive, no, they’ll decide the only person they want to victimise will be the scaborous old bat at the sweetshop. Except Paul is male, so he is dumped into the catergory of fat, spineless, spiteful, selfish, vindictive, poisonous postal worker.

And he’s perfect for the role.

I brought all the forms, all of them, then tried to pay, and found my card was declined, this has never happened before, and was suitably embarrassing. Now because I’m a wee bitty stressed at the moment, the floodgates of my own vitriolic self-hatred flung themselves open. Cue my brain whispering to me:
“He’s never liked you, he’s disgusted by you. Why would anyone want you as a friend? You’re pointless. They hate you, they only keep you around to laugh at. You’re completely useless, you’d make a good doorstop, but you’re so fat you’ll just block the whole damn room, let alone the door. And you smell.”
After all that, Paul decides to declare loudly, to the amusement of the whole post office “It’s been declined, you don’t have enough money”

When my customers cards are declined I ask them quietly if they’d like me to try again. So they’re not embarrassed or ashamed. I ask Paul if I can try again, he practically shouts “If it didn’t work that time, it won’t work again, will it?”

My gates break, and I’m stood a trembling, quivering wreck, so ashamed that I wish the ground would open, it wouldn’t even have to swallow me, just to distract everyone enough so I can make a less shame faced getaway. And maybe punch that smug fat bastard before I go.
Who has been calling me ‘boy’ and ‘he’ the whole time, by the way, despite my very female name on top of the forms, my painted nails, and my non-baggy top.

And I can’t stop the tears. Extra serving of shame, over here on table tosser, thank you so much. Oh, can you bring the horror trolley please, thanks. I manage to mumble the words “can I have my paperwork back please?” I even manage a please, the paperwork was all my car stuff, my receipt for buying Hobbes in the first place, my insurance, my MOT, everything I had, so he pulls it back. Just to make sure I can’t reach it through the gap at the bottom of the window. I suddenly realise that window is only there because of tossers like him.

By now, everyone is staring at the girl whose red nails are digging into the palms of her hands, the counter top, the back of her own neck, anywhere, just to avoid crying more and wrapping them round Paul’s amorphous neck. I ask again, he starts sighing and huffing and puffing about having to undo all the work on the computer, I ask for my paperwork again, eventually he stuffs it through the gap. He carries on huffing and puffing and ‘Jesus Christ’ing and generally being offensive about all people who aren’t him.

I run across town, trying to avoid all the half term kids, and mentally daring any of them to say anything, none of them do. Apparently my ‘I am here’ signal, as Terry Pratchett would call it is not only loud and clear, it’s also loud and violent.

I end up having to call mum, breaking down in tears again as I explain what a useless twat I am, how pointless I feel, how I can’t even go to the post office without freaking out. That I feel like one of those kids they send out with three carers for an hour a week to see how they cope outside the hospital with people. You know, the ones that aren’t even allowed plastic cutlery, just in case.

So mum manages to calm me down and sort the car tax and I go home and eat popping candy chocolate spread on toast and do some more packing.

Oh, and I got all Paul’s details, I know it sounds harsh, but I’m now determined to get that arse fired, hopefully around Christmas.

And I still haven’t moved in yet. Le sigh.

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