We have undertaken to divest Station House's excess junk. This has involved opening drawers that may not have seen the light of day for quite some time and exploring the interiors for any lurking monsters. We have started a gathering of tip bound materials in the Trusty Trailer. The verandah of the Hovel is almost clear. We have made plans to garner some of Michael's rusty collection as quirky additions to our walls and front courtyard. We've even decided to resurrect the old bench seat and give it a varnish job.
Our break has also given us, probably unfortunately, the impetus to contact Centrelink and update our assets. I had foolishly believed I may have been able to complete this task Online as the website suggested we could do so. This misled trust has led to disaster in the past, and once again, in spite of their assurance, my attempts to alter our assets ended with that all-too-familiar promise to contact me, whilst sniggering about yet another fine mess that Would Now Go Further...
Give me strength...
The other issue is that if I wait for Centrelink to contact me, the letter will contain those veiled threats to cut off my left foot in a particular timeframe if I am unable to comply. So, taking courage in hand, I resolved to ring the Disability, Carers and Sickness Centrelink line and attempt to sort out these updates. That was nearly forty minutes ago.
So far, we have endured Chinese Martial music, Bonanza inspired country music, a return to the 50s or earlier and now dirgeful piano with an offputting almost hip-hop theme. I had believed that their Muzac couldn't possibly sink any lower. I was wrong.
I am also returning to that familiar miasma that accompanies any contact with Centrelink. They operate under a combination of Murphy's Law and the Peter Principle. Which means that my First Contact with Centrelink in 2019 will produce a flurry of errors, frenetic changes in our payments and countless computer-generated letters that I will have to decipher and then seek assistance from yet another hapless officer who will give me another tome of contradictory and weirdly incomprehensible information. And this will continue until the next armistice. Because there are never any real winners in dealings with Centrelink. There is only ever cessation of current hostilities.
Fifty minutes and counting. The dreadful sounds emanating from my phone resemble dance music from the 30s. Played by a depressed orchestra. Followed immediately by a topsy turvy electronic disco set. I think Centrelink may be attempting a Vulcan Mind Meld.
Earlier today, I was lucky enough to also ring a financial institution. Surprisingly, I managed to sidestep the queue with my out-of-the-ordinary query. I finished that conversation with an email to write, requesting (yep) additional information and the situation still unresolved.
Waiting for Centrelink is like watching the lift numbers whilst running late for an appointment and being stranded on the lower ground floor. Without any of the excitement.
Michael's explanation for their truly awful Muzac is their hope we will all become unconscious or hang up, so we can quietly die without Centrelink's knowledge. I have been on hold for so long now that we're back into a very bad Chinese opera.
And just to add to that air of surreal expectation, the webpage times out periodically as the virtual world obviously cannot fathom the length of the queue.
Seventy-five minutes and I am in acute need of an alcoholic beverage.
After nearly one hundred minutes, my call was received. I reached the front of the queue. The Centrelink officer was polite, courteous and understanding. She altered our assets. She explained to me that we were assessed under Income, due to some mysterious machinations called "deeming". The whole process was over in a flash.
Relief swept over me. I had achieved this dreaded task. Then I came back to earth with a dull thud of exhaustion. Maybe I had better wait for a bit before I put on my dancing shoes...
Wish us luck.
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