Beurocratic blues

I read a factoid somewhere once - at least, I think I did - which said that depression is almost unknown in the third world; that when one has to struggle to survive on a daily basis, one didn't have time to get depressed; that depression required time for introspection. Instinctively, this seems approximately right to me, although I can't reconcile it with how I feel at the moment. A horrid constellation of events has left me with far too much to do in far too little time, and it's depressing the hell out of me.

Strangely, I don't mind too much being mildly depressed from time to time; nor do I seek too much sympathy for it. I decided a long time ago that my periods of depression were, in some strange way, productive, connected to my creativity, and that I didn't desire to have them treated. And I do take some pleasure in occasional self-indulgent wallowing. But being down and having too much stuff to do is no fun at all. I'm at work, now, and trying to get myself up to do some actual work.

As often happens, when things aren't going entirely your way, the world has been conspiring against me to make things harder than they need be. There are two incidents worth mentioning. The first is this: yesterday, during one of the hardest days I've had in a while, I got viciously yelled at by a mean nun. Now those of you who know me are no doubt thinking, "Jeez, Nicholas, your ability to piss people off is legendary, but I never thought you'd stoop this low. What attrocity did you commit to get yelled at by a nun?" But, ladies and gentleman of the jury, I did nothing wrong. I was at a former convent, now a bed and breakfast, and was engaged in the horribly difficult and physically stressful job of trying to carry massive steel bookshelves down stairs. In the midst of this, the mean nun came and screamed at us because we were making too much noise. We apologised profusely. She was distinctly uncharitable, and continued to tell us off as if we were small children.

Then, this morning, I had a run-in with The Fire Alarms That Cry Wolf on a Regular Basis. Basically, in the continuing tradition of bug infestations in my apartment, I've had, for the past few weeks, a terrible problem with a strange species of fruit fly. It's not just me - they're all over Sydney, I'm seeing them everywhere. In fact, I've developed something of a hunter's eye for this particular critter, as for the past week or two I have been going on search and destroy missions throughout my apartment, armed with fly spray, zapping them on an individual basis - more general efforts to spray them having failed. And I've been going through a can of spray every couple of days, which I don't like. The pesticide people insist their spray is safe, but I don't believe them - does anybody? That's what they said about DDT.

So I decided to bomb them, in the hope that this would clear them out. I set everything up before I left, got the bombs a-bombin', and left the apartment for work. Immediately, the fire alarms tripped. I opened the door, went back inside, acquiring a fine coating of my old friend, the "probable mutagen" fenoxycarb, and opened the doors to the balcony. Then I went downstairs to tell the building managers that there was no problem.

And who did I encounter but the nun's twin brother, masquerading as the building manager of our apartment. "You should have phoned us," he said. I pointed out that I'd come down immediately to tell them, and I couldn't exactly phone from my apartment, which was full of fenoxycarb. "No, no," he said. "BEFORE you let the bug spray off. Now you'll get a fine for a false alarm."

I looked at him incredulously, then pointed out a few things. Not all these things, I'm sure, and certainly not this coherently, but I hope and believe I mentioned at least a few. That I had lived in the apartment building for five years, and never once had I seen any notice informing residents to inform building management before using an insect bomb. That I'd used them before without incident. That it was a common household product that I'd used in accordance with the manufacturer's instructions. That The Fire Alarms That Cry Wolf On a Regular Basis, cry wolf on a regular basis. That I'd immediately notified them of the problem. And that I'd talked to his sister yesterday, and he resembled her.

I need a shower.

posted by Nicholas @ 11:44 AM