The bureaucratic process in France still continues to amaze me. Maybe this is because I thought that I had experienced it all when trying to get a last-minute Russian student visa in Mongolia without the appropriate documentation (it ended with an strange grilling / interview by the Consular in between the highlights of a Moscow Spartak football match… and a visa for me).

But – in my naïve world view – that was almost to be expected with dealing with two post-Soviet states in the wilds of the steppes. Silly me. I should have known better. Of course it’s exactly the same wild goose chance in enlightened and rational France – long live equality for all in painful hassles and ingratiated fawning!

Why the angst? Well after living in Paris and working as an au pair for over six months, I’ve finally collected enough documentation to apply for health cover. I went proudly to the social security today with my collected treasure trove (birth certificate, passport, bank account statement, documents that I’ve needed my diploma to apply for, first toe nail clippings, the Golden Fleece… you know, just the norm) and after waiting for my number to eventually grace the neon display was duly ripped to shreds by the woman working there.

I should have known. I was once told by a friend to play your documents against bureaucracy like it was a hand of cards – ie. never show your trump card until absolutely necessary. But I just went and laid it all on the table…

She barked at me what was wrong with my documents (bugger! I had forgotten to write the name of my employer!) and then sighed a few times whilst looking through the other papers and expectantly at me.

I thought that meant I should show some initiative (she wasn’t offering a pen, that was for sure), so I took one out of my bag and demonstrated how simple it was to rectify the omitted detail.

She waited till I had finished and then scolded me for filling it out… ‘and you’ve done it with a red pen!’

A rapid fire tirade followed. She obviously wasn’t of the “speak slowly and the foreigner will understand” school. Turns out I had filled out the entire thing myself in error, including the signature at the bottom. I’m sure last time I was there I was told to fill it out, and I’d shown it to both French boss and boyfriend without them picking up that it wasn’t me who was to sign.

So after the fuss and the sighs, a little indignation on my part (which is very difficult when balancing diplomacy with a limited vocabulary), and then me sitting there thinking forlornly that I would have to return, she took my phone number, photocopied a page and filed my documents.

I sat there still, wondering what to make of it all… ‘and now…?’

‘Three weeks’ she replied.