Paperwork: it might not work out

Life is a myriad of possibilities. Stare at a rose – be humbled at its intricacy. Appreciate regeneration as autumn edges leaves into warm hues, mornings into cold crispness and be reminded that you are cosmically connected to the sky and the trees. Whatever works. Just as long as you peg it back to your desk and get your filing in order.

It seems that the terminal to-do list has replaced the eternal whisperings of Keatsian beach contemplation. The most humble tasks now come complete with the requirements that you give over your basic details, undergo health and safety training and complete an evaluation form for monitoring and quality control purposes. The reason? I’m not sure – perhaps if I subscribed to the mailing list then there might be a link on Twitter to the answer. Somewhere.

Like the pointless propensity for forming orderly, disgruntled queues and retaining immense pride in a sporting prowess we don’t have, ridiculous bureaucracy is increasingly a mark of Britishness. Imagine, if you will, moving to Britain in your mid twenties to embark on an adventure in existential freefall and shared houses that are also (structurally) falling. Visualise finding a job (apparently there ARE some – the papers told me so) and looking round broom cupboards in Kilburn. And then, imagine doing this without seven forms of ID, including references from your last five landlords and utility bills which clearly show your address.

Um. Yeah. Tricky one that. Luckily, banks will accept library cards as forms of photo ID. Because, well, they’ve got your face on it and show where you live. A problem solved for this quick-thinking individual, a giant crater of WTF created. And an impressive number of logic issues raised. Not to mention the five years off my life in incandescent rage at having to spend three months obtaining a parking permit – if only I’d known that reading was still culturally validated.

Because that is the problem. Paperwork exists but, like the protagonist in Avenue Q, it is both hilarious and lacking in purpose. The weight of a million forms with sober typefaces and reassuring cuboid tickboxes with important bits underlined look official. They might have a polysyllabic name. An (hushed tones of awe and wonder) Act of Parliament that says you must do them or face DIRE CONSEQUENCES. But they are as rigorous as an eighteen year old gap year student with a chronic weed habit and a bag of Doritos. Paperwork does not work out.

Take the Enhanced Criminal Records Bureau application form. Or, if you like acronymns (and therefore should probably go and audit something instead of reading blogs by arts graduates) the CRB. Its reason for being: to ensure that young people are properly safeguarded. That the people who work with them are who they say they are and don’t have convictions that render them unsuitable for working with vulnerable, malleable young minds.

A good rationale. Morally sound. In principle – dare I say it – it could even work. The forms are pretty impressive too. Four pages of ink-filling in block capital boxes and a bibliography of suitable proof of identity, divided neatly into Groups 1 and 2 with added subclauses for transparency and ease. Except when you actually read what constitutes an ‘acceptable’ form of ID, you might want to head for the autumnal trees and hope that the council haven’t introduced health and safety (sorry, sorry, H&S) procedures for shimmying up them.

Didn’t renew your passport? Got no driving license because you listened to Boris and bought a bike? Fine, fine. Well, you can’t use your library card – but you can produce an original copy of your firearms license. And the court summons you got for accidentally discharging it whilst liberating your savings from an unhelpful cashier? That’s right – you’re good for Group 2 proof. As long as its less than three years old and shows your current address, of course.