BUREAUCRACY IS IDIOCRASY GONE MAD: PART 3

It ends. No it doesn't. I finally give up.

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BUREAUCRACY IS IDIOCRASY GONE MAD PART 3

We set off early this morning. Plan was to go to VicRoads, give the letter from the Optometrist in and begin the Learner's Permit happening, then head to the University Dylan was soon to start at, so we could organise his student loans. From there, we'd go see my mum in hospital and then head home, aiming to make it back before dinner, since we'd been living on pizza and... pizza for the past week.

Notice I mentioned my son's name? He gave me permission! Something so unexpected, so not in my world right now, I was floored - since he guards his online privacy like a hawk. I think he's finally convinced people might like what I write...

Anyway. We arrived at VicRoads, Dylan carting his folder with all the necessary documents. The Learners Permit test area was curiously empty this morning. We walked up to the counter, where he explained what had happened two days earlier. He removed the letter from the folder.

"You need to go upstairs Dylan, this is the test area. Your details have been transferred there."

"Upstairs" was a different world. We were met by two voluptuous ladies in too-tight skirts. They stood in front of a ticket machine. Behind the machine stood or sat about 100 people, most of them with heads bowed and thumbs busy.

"How can we help you today?" The blonde one asked.

"The lady downstairs sent me up here. I passed the Learner's Permit test but I failed the eye test. I have a letter from the Optometrist."

"Did you fill in your application form?" This from the shorter, dark-haired one.

"No?" Dylan looked at me. I shook my head. "No." he repeated.

"Does the letter go to the Medical Review Team?" blonde asked brunette.

"I'm not sure."

"Then-"

I had to end their confusion. It sounded like a whole lot more bureaucratic lunacy. "Look, we were told to just hand the letter over at the counter. No one downstairs mentioned a Medical Board."

"We're just trying to figure out which ticket to give you," blonde said.

That's when I looked at the machine. It had two rows of five buttons on either side of a large screen.

"I think we'll give them this one," brunette said, tapping on one of the buttons. She handed the ticket to Dylan. "They will probably be able to sort this out for you."

I tried to ignore the word "probably" but it kept repeating itself in my head, like a song that won't leave. Probably... Probably... Probably...

"Can I ask how long the wait is?"

A well-worn look between them. "Can't really say," blonde said. Her eyes drifted to the sea of people, like she was thinking "Look around lady, you're not getting out of here any time soon."

Dylan and I moved to the side. More people came. The larger board overhead flashed ticket numbers, matching them with counter numbers. A pleasant at first then increasingly annoying female voice kept us updated: "Ticket ILQ451 proceed to counter 5."

"What have we got?"

"XWZ 007," Dylan said. "We're under Licence Cancellations and Suspensions?"

"There's nothing with an X up there," I said. "I think we have the wrong ticket." Lots of A's and C's and I's were breezing through.

During the next hour and a half, we read all about Vanity Plates. "No way I'm getting 'Victoria the Education State' on my car," from Dylan, this being the latest blurb below the series of letters and numbers.

"I had 'Victoria on the Move' and 'Victoria the Garden State'," I said. The first one was joked about at the time because it sounded like we the drivers were all on some laxative. The second created a mental image of Victorians knee-deep in manure, tending to their flower beds...

Millions of dollars paid by VicRoads to some ad agency suits who sat about and 'brainstormed' these ludicrous representations. The only way to avoid them was to pay a minimum of $500 for what were once plain number plates and now were called 'Vanity plates'.

We browsed through the 'Guide to getting your Licence' and assorted other printed material. We also watched people arriving after us called to counters.

"I think we're in the 'don't know what to do with so I'll ignore and move on' queue," I said to Dylan.

"Stop being so negative mum!"

"I need to let it out."

"It's a process."

"We have computers now. We could have just had the letter emailed by the Optometrist. Or scanned and emailed it ourselves! Not that hard!"

"Your complaining isn't going to change anything!"

I was in the process of both admiring his patience and hating his sheepish adherence to the ridiculous system, when we heard the magic words:

"XWZ 007, proceed to counter 1."

"See, my complaining did work!"

We stood in front of the counter. There was a small square of letters on the wall behind. They appeared larger to me than the square of numbers Dylan had been asked to read downstairs.

"I passed my Learner's test two days ago," Dylan explained again. "But I failed the eye test. Here's my letter from the Optometrist."

"Do you have any ID?" the lady asked, without glancing at the letter.

Dylan emptied his folder out. He had more than enough ID. The woman proceeded to sort through it and once she'd isolated his Birth Certificate and Medicare Card, she took them away to make copies.

"Babe, can you read those letters on the wall? The last line?" Something was bugging me.

"AZQLPN," he read without the slightest hesitation. "I can see every line."

"What the f-"

"Mum!"

The lady returned. "Have you filled out your application form Dylan?"

He knew the answer to this one. "No."

She handed him a form, which he filled in. Being a leftie, he always left smudge marks behind. He handed the form over, after signing the bottom.

"Can you read the last line of letters behind me?"

"AZQLPN," he rattled off.

"Good." She handed him a now printed form. "Head off to the cashier, where you pay and get your photo taken."

Something was bugging me.

We joined the queue at the cashier's counter and eventually he was called. He paid the $20 fee and stood in front of a white screen.

"You can smile," the friendly cashier informed him.

"Can I frown?" Dylan asked.

"Why not?" he replied with a chuckle.

The camera clicked, capturing his smiley-frown for the next five years.

"Babe, can you read the middle line of words behind this counter?"

"Sure he said," quickly reading the line of letters. "I told you, I can see all of them."

"But you couldn't two days ago!"

"Maybe the Optometrist did something to my eyes?"

I didn't get a chance to rebut the ridiculousness of that statement.

"Congratulations Dylan, your Driver's Permit will arrive in the mail in about a week to ten days."

My son and I looked at each other. Had we entered an alternate reality?

"In the meantime, you use this, if you intend to drive," he added, handing over a temporary Learner's Permit. "Make sure you carry it with you when you are behind the wheel."

We walked away. My son had just been given his permit to drive. Something was still bugging me.

"You weren't supposed to get that yet. Not without your glasses."

"I know, right?" Dylan read the Permit. "It's unconditional mum! There's no mention of needing to wear glasses!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yep. Under 'Conditions' it says NIL. That's unconditional right?"

"Follow me."

"You're going to take me downstairs again, aren't you?"

I took him downstairs again. Made him read the letters behind two different counters. He read them flawlessly. Then I took him to the counter near the computers where he'd sat the test.

"Can you read those numbers?"

"No? They're way smaller."

They were way smaller. What was going on?"

It was in the car, waiting to back out as three different Learners were attempting to park that I figured it all out: The lady behind the counter upstairs had not read the Optometrist's letter (it was very technical, just a bunch of numbers and percentages). She assumed it was a letter attesting to the fact that he could see. She made him read the letters behind her. He read them faultlessly. This confirmed the supposed findings by the Optometrist. He could see!

We sat and laughed and laughed. My very short-sighted son had just been given an unconditional permit to drive.

"Hey mum," he said as I headed towards the Uni. "How many other short-sighted teens are out there driving without glasses do you reckon?"

"That's not funny."

"This means I don't need to get glasses now, right?"

"No it doesn't. You couldn't read the numbers. You are blind."

"No I'm not! I could see properly and legally on the first floor. I have the permit to prove it!"

"You were blind on the ground floor. You're so getting glasses!"

He wasn't happy about it. Nor could I properly blame him.

"So older drivers are allowed to pass the eye-test for their Licence, because they are shown larger letters..." I mused. "Learners have to pass a harder eye-test. Hmmm."

"Does this mean most of the drivers renewing their licences might be short-sighted?" Dylan was following my train of thought.

"Looks that way." I thought of my precious boy driving in a sea of squinting middle-aged short-sightedness...

"Who cares," he said, reading my mind again. "I got my Unconditional Permit, right? When can I drive your car?"

"Not until you've had some lessons and you're wearing glasses!"

We'd reached STUDENT HQ at Swinburne University. Down the stairs, another ticket machine with lots of buttons.

"Which one?" he asked me. Like I was some expert. When I'd attended Uni, you just got an acceptance letter in the mail and a book list and turned up the day your course started. Education had been free.

I read through the options. I looked at the thirty or so students/parents sitting or standing. I looked at the Board, showing who was at which of the six counters.

"Grab these three," I said.

"Can we do that?"

"Do it!"

"Hope we don't get that lady," Dylan said, his eyes pointing to a middle-aged woman who looked like an ex-teacher and whose lips were permanently sloping down at the edges. "She doesn't look happy right?" I think he'd had his fill of unhappy women...

Forty-five minutes later, we were sitting in front of said woman. Yes, I did give him a rather dirty look.

"So Dylan," she said, a wide welcoming smile transforming her face. "How can I help you?"

The ticket called had been the one about General Enquiries. He was there to apply for his student loan however.

She saw him glance down at the three tickets in his hand. "You took three?"

He kicked me, discreetly. "My fault," I cut in, expecting a lecture. "We're new to this and I wasn't sure which option to choose."

She smiled! "That's okay; I'll cancel the other two."

Twenty minutes later, she'd efficiently organised everything. We stood, Dylan clutching his still warm plastic Student ID card with yet another photo of himself with a smiley-frown.

"So you really can't judge a book by its cover."

I had learned over the years that despite his calling everything coming out of my mouth "a life lesson", sooner or later, he'd arrive at the intended conclusion.

"Mum, I think I need a larger wallet."

I ignored him. One last gasp.

"Can I ask you something?" I said to the now best new student helper in the world.

"Sure."

"Centrelink has been mucking us about for over a month now, demanding either a Proof of Age Card or a Driver's Permit. How come Dylan can borrow tens of thousands from the Tax Department by just showing his Birth Certificate and Medicare Card? That's all he had to show to VicRoads as well."

She frowned for the first time. "Is that what they told you?"

"Numerous times. We were also mislead into getting a Key Pass, which involved Statutory Declarations and witnesses and... even that was not good enough."

"I think you can just show them his Student Card."

"You sure?"

"I know other students have done it."

"Thank you!"

It was five-thirty and we were crawling in peak-hour traffic. We had to make one more stop at our local supermarket for man-nappies for his grandfather. It meant arriving home by about seven. The nerve in my back had by now reached the point where it demanded attention. I couldn't take any pain meds during the day since I was driving... I was now in that familiar pain-hell, which was usually accompanied by low moans, contorted movements trying to find a less-painfull stance and far too many expletives.

"Pizza?" I got that single word out. Barely.

"Sure mum. I'll order on the way so it's ready for pick-up." Bless him.

"We're going to Centrelink first thing in the morning. Is there an issue date on your student ID?" A plan was forming in my mind.

Dylan pulled it out and studied it. "Nope." He gave me that funny look. "You're not going to-"

"What I'm going to do is ask why none of those tired bit-"

"I'm not coming with you! You're gonna act crazy!"

"Yes you are coming. And if she says we could have shown your Student ID I am going to demand that you are back-paid from the date of your first application."

"Mum they have security guards - you know - those big blokes in black near the entrance?"

"I don't care if they call the SWAT Team. You're getting what's owed you."

... We've just returned from Centrelink. Got there just as the doors were opening this morning. After yet another lengthy wait - despite being among the first few to enter those doors - (I assumed ALL staff were taking this time to mentally prepare for another tiresome day, as they all sat in front of empty desks, sipping on coffee and staring blankly into space...), there we were, in front of yet another lady.

I wasted no time. "He got his Learners Permit yesterday. His card will arrive in about ten days but the lady at VicRoads said this will be sufficient in the meantime."

Dylan produced his non-conditional paper permit. We waited.

"I'm going to check something," she said, walking away to consult with another lady.

"What if I cry? You reckon that will help? (I am one of those women who can produce tears on demand).

"You do that and I'm walking out."

"One tear, just one teardrop."

"I'm walking out!"

She returned. "We need the card itself with the photo on it."

"But they checked his ID and took his picture at VicRoads, it exists somewhere. He can drive with this!"

"It doesn't satisfy our requirements."

"What about his University ID then?" Dylan pulled it out of his wallet. "The lady there said many students had used this as proof of eligibility for Youth Allowance. You're paying him this allowance for going to Uni right? Isn't this card with his photo on it proof that he's attending?"

"We don't accept University Student Cards. Have you read what we consider approved evidence?"

I nearly cried. I also nearly cursed but I caught some movement below the desk. Dylan had his foot ready.

"Besides, (she'd been checking the screen) you as his guardian must provide the Financial Status Form. You haven't filled it in according to our records." There was a tut-tut sound in her voice.

"But on the form, it says I am exempt from filling it because I receive a Carer's Pension? Check it yourself!"

She reached into the filing cabinet and produced the form. I pointed her to the relevant part. It quite clearly stated exactly what I'd told her.

"You still have to fill it in anyway." Huh?

"Umm... he also turned eighteen yesterday? I am therefore no longer his legal guardian? I can't receive payments for him."

"You still need to fill the form in." The robotic response was devoid of all human emotion. The robotic woman stared expectantly.

I filled the form in, giving her all the information Centrelink had on file which she could access with a press of a button: Name, age, date of birth, current address, tick yes, receiving a Government Pension.

I couldn't resist one last shot. "The Tax Department is directly linked with Centrelink, correct?"

"Of course. That's how we check if Centrelink Benefit recipients receive any other income. If they try to cheat the system?"

"Right. So my son has borrowed a significant amount as a loan from the Tax Department with his Student ID Card."

"Yes, that's what most students do."

"And he is eligible to receive a thousand dollars to help with his Uni stuff right? Like books and things."

"Yes. Centrelink will transfer it into his bank account in a few days. He will begin to repay this amount once he is working and his income reaches a certain level."

"So Centrelink will give him this thousand dollars, without photo ID, but cannot give him his Youth Allowance which is also connected to his studies."

She looked at me. I looked at her. She looked at me.

"Mum!"

"We still need to sight an approved photo ID." The robot was on a loop.

My son got up. He started to walk away. I followed...

I gave up. I did. The system beat me. I will now patiently wait for his approved ID to arrive in the mail.

We took my father to see mum in hospital for the first time, shortly after our visit to Centrelink. Everything went well. Then he needed to go to the toilet.

"You have a nappy on," I reminded him.

"I think it's full."

He was in a wheelchair we'd sort of stolen from downstairs, since when we asked Reception, they claimed none were available. Dylan had spotted one outside a ward. He'd grabbed it and run out to the car.

Now he led my father to the toilet, opposite mum's bed. Dad entered. The doctor meanwhile arrived and we were discussing mum's progress.

Suddenly, the ward filled with nurses, an assortment of doctors and orderlies, one dragging a crash-cart. They all stared at the locked toilet.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"A patient is in trouble in the toilet. They've locked it from the inside and keep pressing the emergency buzzer." This from a very concerned nurse.

"Should we call Security?" I heard someone else ask.

"Dad?" I knocked on the door. "Dad?"

Everyone waited, poised for action.

The door slowly opened. Dad stood there with his pants down and an overfull nappy on display, frowning.

"Toilet no flush," he said. "I try, I push button many time but no flush."