So here I am in Freiberg, getting stuff sorted out. Rent a flat, buy a bed, get lamps in, all this sort of stuff. Yesterday, went and bought desk, kitchen table, shelves.
Well, I say desk and kitchen table. Two cheap doors on four trestles, no point in wasting the shareholders’ money.
So I’d wandered up the hill (3, 4 clicks away), bought them for delivery. They give me the noon to 6pm delivery slot.
It is now exactly noon at pixel time. And the man turned up 20 minutes ago, unloaded, said thanks and I’ve already got the desk up and running.
There’s something terribly wrong with this picture isn’t there? Delivery early, but early enough to be really on time?
Or yesterday, I had to register in Germany (and no, I won’t be here more than 183 days a year!) So off to the Rathaus (yes, that and Ratskeller do still make me laugh) and the Tuesday afternoon possibility for you to register. And we have no common language. My German extends to “Wo ist” sort of stuff, where you speak English but with a heavy accent, no more. Their English was at a similar level and we weren’t going to get anywhere with schoolboy French or supermarket Portuguese, not in this corner of Europe. My Russian’s very rusty and I have a feeling that it’s still impolitic to use it around here.
But still, we got the registration done with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of embarassed smiles as we stumbled through various mistakes (no, you can’t put down my citizenship as Irish, that all rather changed around 1920 or so whatever g-grandpops thought about it). 15 minutes all told. Then round to the bank, with the registration, to open an account.
Only person there who spoke English (other than a very cute and pneumatic girl who backed out saying she was still studying English and therefore didn’t feel up to it) was the branch manager so he opened the account.
He made me a cup of coffee and by the time I had drunk it we were done: card and PIN on the way.
How the hell did any country ever end up with bureaucracy that works?