A brush with bureaucracy. And I survived.

It all began when the baby was born some 18 sleepless but joyful months ago now. My mother-in-law gave me a nudge and said I should apply to the state for family cheques.
"You pay tax, you're due it," she said, which was at least partly true.
I looked at her and asked, "Well, how difficult is that going to be? Will I need a degree in public administration first to be able to negotiate the quagmire of rules and convoluted archaic Italian?".
"Now, now, Deep, non esagerare. It's easy, one, two, three, it's done. Have a little faith in people sometimes."
As you can imagine, I pictured Woody Allen's face in the closing scene of his absolute classic 'Manhatten', years before he lost his talent and his marbles.
"You'll have some more orecchiette with ragù, won't you?" she continued.
"Does the Pope shit in the woods?" is what I wanted to say but I wisely kept my mouth shut but I'm losing the narrative thread here.
So I asked at work what forms I needed and what supporting documents were necessary. Silence. Boh. Ask the commercialista. So I did. Via email, like some fool drunk on cheap punch. Silence. Weeks went by. I chased it up.
"I actually sent an email about it weeks ago."
I heard uncontained sniggering on the other end of the line. The line was being repeated around the office to much mirth.
"I'll let you know," the voice said eventually, after the laughter had died out.
A few days later, the answer came.
"You just need to fill out the forms with the right details and Bob's yer uncle."
"And that's all? Nothing else?"
"No, nothing, tranquillo."
This word always sent a chill down my spine. Tranquillo.
"Niente niente?"
"Niente, don't be paranoid!"
Okey doke. Have a little faith. I filled out the forms and left them with the secretaries to send to the commercialista's office together with the prima nota, the monthly office payments in/out documents. And I waited.
After another couple of weeks, I started getting the shakes. I called and was passed onto the consulente di lavoro, a certain faith-inspiring Mr Beans. He hadn't received any forms.
"And anyway, you need the autorizzazione from INPS (the social security office). Get that and send over the forms again and we'll get this sorted," he said, all upbeat.
So I called INPS and explained the situation once I finally got to talk to a human being.
"Can I do this via the phone or email?"
I could hear uncontrollable giggling again from the other end of the line. What am I funny? Do I amoose you?
This was June/JUly time and I was wrapping things up for the summer and getting ready to leave town so I put the thing on ice for a bit. Until after the summer and then I plucked up the courage and went in on September 1. I picked up a ticket and waited with my ipod and some McEwan for company. I didn't have to wait long though. While I was, I heard many a violent screaming match between these power-drunk officials and Italians on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
The far from friendly guy behind the desk looked through the forms I'd brought.
"All this seems to be in order. And the letter from the mother declaring she isn't receiving family cheques?"
"What letter?"
"You don't have it?"
"Can't you just check on your computer whether she is or not?"
He smiled broadly like I'd just slipped on a banana skin.
"Err, no, that's not how things work. I really need that letter."
"Nobody told me I needed it," I protested, too much.
He shrugged his shoulders and pressed his button to summon his next victim. I walked out effing and blinding.
Trying to maintain my calm, I rolled up the following day, clutching the aforementioned letter. My partner hadn't been around so I'd faked the signature like a good Italian. I had a different bloke this time, no less mean and self-important.
"Tutto bene, tutto bene," he said leafing through my papers. "E lo stato di famiglia?"
There was a quiver in my voice when I meekly replied, "Stato di famiglia? What's that?"
What it is is a document issued by the Comune that declares whether you're single, married, living together or whatever. What difference it makes is beyond me.
"Can't you just ring them?" I ventured.
"Don't worry, you can fill out this autodichiarazione. It may delay things however."
Finally it was my turn to blurt out a nervous, anxious chuckle. Delay things? Are you pulling my pecker, buddy boy?
That was two months ago. A few weeks ago, I resigned myself to the fact that I'd have to go back in. In the meantime, I'd received an email from the future chirpily saying that I could email INPS directly to chase up applications. Yeah, right, I thought but then I figured that very few Italians would be green enough to fall for the invitation so I scribbled a few lines and sent off the email. What did I have to lose?
This morning I was about to lug my sorry arse in and ask what was happening but luckily I didn't. This afternoon something strange happened. I got a call. From a very friendly woman.
"Signor Deep. I'm calling from the INPS office about the email you sent two weeks ago. We just wanted to let you know that your autorizzazione is in the post."
I gushed like a shy teenager.
"Thanks a lot. Thanks, really, really, that's ever so kind. Thank you for the call."

So all's well that end's well although it's far from over. The letter has to arrive. I have to fill out all the forms again and personally hand them in to the consulente di lavoro. Then maybe, just maybe, I'll get my family cheques. Hopefully before the baby turns 18.

I've told this story to my Italian friends and they've just shrugged in that resigned but knowing way.
"Only two months? Ti è andata bene," they say.

Maybe they're right. Maybe at the end of the day, all things considered, I did get off lightly.