A judge sent my affidavit back yesterday, six weeks after I affirmed it at First Avenue House - you know - the place you go to get divorced when you don’t have a lawyer. I only found this out because I called the court up to check, seeing as I was supposed to have my decree nisi by now.
Well, to be blunt, I chewed the woman’s ear off. I wsn’t rude, but I was at my unfriendly and scary best. I demanded to speak with the boss-man - a Ross Kitley, who turned out to sound far too common for a court official, but was in fact hugely accommodating and apologetic. He recognised the mistake. I demanded to see him. He acceded. Since he was on holiday next week, I persuaded him to see me today.
So off I went. Another £5 CONgestion charge paid. Another central London traffic jam to sit through with roadwords and diversions and bus lane perversions. Why are buses allowed in car lanes? Eh? They’ve got their own Nazi state looking after their 10-litre-diesel asses in their own wide lanes, why can’t they stay out of ours? Especially now that we pay extra to drive in central London? Shouldn’t we ripped-off drivers be given some cossetting over and above the fact that past Marylebone Road, we turn into the pampered frak-show that the paupers stare at?
Ross Kitley was very good. He gave me the right affidavit this time. I filled it in, affirmed it in front of another witness and he promised he’d get it sent back to the judge today. He was of course, half my age, with a proper job, in good shape and actually quite good at customer service. Yet another human reason to feel like a loser. Again. Hey, at least my breath didn’t smell as bad as his. I noticed he had slipped out for a crafty tab as I was filling in the new affidavit - one of the disadvantages of stopping the evil habit is that now I notice the stench on everyone else from fifty paces.
On the way back, I sat in traffic for over an hour and a half, inhaling fumes and fuming them right back.
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