Over the phone I told my Australian
sister that I planned to attend the ceremony at which our brother-in-law - a
recently retired civil servant - was to be awarded the Imperial Service Medal.
"It's for a lifetime of work," I explained.
"So he gets a medal for going to
work?" she asked, her tone rising at the end of the sentence in that way which
makes Australians sound incredulous even when they’re not.
"Err,
yes," I said.
Recognition
in the form of a gong is all very well, but an enhanced pension would be
preferable - if you ask me. But in these times of miserly public spending, those
few who remain in public service must make do with decorations and expressions
of gratitude.
Our local Council
has made determined efforts to divest itself of employees in order to save
money. It has put its faith in a brand new, interactive website instead. Here
is an example of how it works. Someone has abandoned a big wheelie bin on our
street. It is overflowing with rubbish and attracting more each day. Since it
is no longer possible to phone the Council I place a request via the website to
have it removed. After a few days the anonymous response comes back that it is
"not the Council's responsibility". I place another request, hopefully
ticking some alternative boxes (there is no facility for free-text). A few days
later the response comes back "The rubbish has been removed," even
though it has not. I give them a couple of days for the bin men to catch up
with the web-response team then I go online a third time to request its removal
(each time I must start a new procedure because, of course, the system thinks the
matter has been dealt with). A few days later the response comes back "The
rubbish has been removed". It hasn't.
On passing
the Town Hall, part of which has undergone an expensive and extensive
three-year refurbishment programme, I decide to drop into the swish new
customer service centre to see if I can make some progress. (I always thought
customers were defined as those who buy goods. But language evolves, and nowadays
a tax-payer is called a customer). I was directed to a line of phone booths
from which I could contact the Environmental Health people without coming
face-to-face with them. Could it be that they are in fear of physical assault
from disgruntled customers/tax-payers? The lady whose misfortune it was to
answer my call listened with practised patience to my tale and promised to put
it through on a Q37 to a colleague. Having waited so long on hold - without music
- I was past caring what she did.
Two days later I took a call from a
mobile number; it was Carl calling from Environmental Health. He had been to
our street, verified the presence of the bin and the small mountain of garbage
that has accumulated around it and subsequently instructed contractors to come
and remove it.
"They might come in two days -
or it might be five," he said "if nothing happens you can call me on
this number".
He didn't
sound very confident. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he had just received
his redundancy notice and that call was a last, desperate attempt at customer
conciliation before he ceases to be a tax-payer and becomes an unemployed
beneficiary of the diminishing public funds, sitting pointlessly at home and
staring out of the window on to his rubbish-strewn, rat-infested street –
without so much as a medal for consolation.
In a week
when London was reported to be the wealthiest city in the world, never was it
more obvious that the U.K. is a poor country run for the benefit of rich
people.
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