The Post Office should be a friendly place. Somewhere do drop off a letter to a distant relative, send a birthday parcel to a nephew, or perhaps pick up a delivery you missed. All these activities serviced by a cheery semi-retired gentleman who reminds you of your Grandad.

Unfortunately there are many Post Offices that have insisted on becoming much more than this. A local Post Office close to where I live has become more than just a simple parcel collection point. I’m not sure of the correct term for this particular branch, but I would imagine it to be something like multi-function-retail-travel-and-taxation-emporium. This is not a good thing.

I mentioned last week about going to get my car MOT’d, well this was a prelude to getting my car tax renewed.

As the UK car owners reading this will know, the DVLA kindly sends a reminder a couple of weeks before your road tax is due. This is to remind you that you need to give them £175 to continue driving on their overly congested, badly repaired, mostly coned-off roads. I have discovered however, that this reminder does not arrive if you’ve moved house in the last 12 months and forgotten to tell the DVLA your car moved house with you. Why they can’t figure it out from the fact I updated my driving licence address I’ll never know. Something to do with computers not talking to computers I think.

Anyway, this meant I had to go to the post office with my MOT, proof of insurance and my car registration documents (with my old address on them). The Internet kindly told me I could fill in a V10 form at the post office and get my tax in a very straightforward manner, no reminder documentation is required. A victory for the information superhighway! (which has no congested, badly repaired of coned-off areas).

However, upon arrival at the post office I was greeted by a disturbing sight. More disturbing than the young man with a Cubic Zirconia earring the size of a plum in front of me. I’m talking about the queue. The queue that leads out of the door and into the street. This is what happens when your post office becomes a multi-function-retail-travel-and-taxation-emporium. After ten minutes I reach the pigeon holes where all the forms are kept. Each pigeon hole is well stocked, there are forms for Passports, Driving Licences, mail forwarding services, savings accounts, change of address forms, travel insurance etc. In fact, there is only one empty Pigeon hole in a rack of twenty four.

It’s the one for the V10 forms.

I can only assume a run on V10’s has taken place due to so many people moving to the area and forgetting to tell the DVLA that their cars had moved house with them. If these people had just remembered to tell the DVLA then this queue would be so much shorter and I’d be served much quicker. I am disappointed by their thoughtlessness.

My dilemma now is do I risk getting to the front of the queue only to be told to look elsewhere for a V10 and then have to rejoin the queue at the back? Or do I jump my way to the front and risk a violent death of all those queuing to see if they have one at the counter? I decide to wait. Long lunch breaks are becoming the norm for me.

“Counter number 5 please”

“Counter number 9 please”

“Counter number 3 please”

The announcer manages to convey an element of genuine surprise in his voice as he rattles off the available counters. I think this must be where bingo callers go to die.

I finally reach the front to be told I don’t actually need a V10 and she will service me right there if I’d like her to? I manage to stifle a juvenile giggle and pay the nice lady, receiving 12 months road tax in return. I return to the office after a 90 minute lunch break and further accusatory glances from my colleagues.

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