Fobbed off

It should have been so simple. I wanted a spare key fob for the secure entrance on my block of flats.

I made all the necessary arrangements; I phoned Tower Hamlets Council yesterday, and spoke to the requisite 14 different departments until we located the right one. I ascertained that to obtain a spare key fob, I needed to bring along a bill with my address on and some photographic ID, and pay the princely sum of £10. I learned that the office I had to go to was a good 20 minutes' walk from where I lived. So far, so good.

So, armed with my driving licence and my TV licence, I headed up the Roman Road, to the delightful council offices.

The offices were very futuristic and high-tech. Built around a circle, ten glass windows welcomed me and an LED screen invited me to take a ticket. I did. Of the ten glass windows, just one was being used to serve the public. The woman next to me sounded as though she was in the advanced stages of TB. Sadly not advanced enough for her to expire and cease irritating me.

The member of public at the glass window was vociferously complaining that his benefits didn't cover his rent. As he was doing it quite so loudly, it was very tempting to wander over, tap him on the shoulder and say, "I say, old chap - couldn't help overhearing... Terrible business about the benefits situation, what? Just a suggestion, have you thought about getting a fucking job?"

I held my tongue though. He probably had a knife. Or poor people germs. One can't be too careful.

Eventually my ticket was called. I went to the window, explained the situation. The barely-conscious member of staff asked me for my rent book. I explained I was a leaseholder. She asked for my ID. I was prepared. She did some photocopying. Brilliant. All going well so far. Then she couldn't find the key fobs and had to phone head office. Then she found the key fobs, and spent about six minutes trying to get one off of the bunch.

Finally she had the key fob in hand. This was my chance. I handed the £10 note to her.

"Oh no, we don't take cash," she said.

"No problem," I replied. I am resourceful and flexible. I brought out my Switch card.

"We don't take cards either," she explained.

"Ah. I think I have my chequebook somewhere... hang on," I said.

"We don't take cheques," said the lady from the council.

"OK," I said. "Here's my problem. You have something I want - and I am willing to pay £10 for it. We have agreed this is a fair price. How do I get that £10 to you if you won't take cash, cards or cheques?"

"Wait a minute," she said. She returned a few minutes later with a credit-card type thing. "You need to take this to the Post Office, get them to put £10 on it, and then bring it back here and I'll give you the key."

The whole process took slightly under an hour. An hour. For a key. Getting two (regular) keys cut later that day on the high street took about 30 seconds.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is how I spent part of a hedonistic day of annual leave. It sucks being grown up. Still, at least the council has worked out how to get really really thick, unemployable people off benefits - make them work for the council. Genius.