Fire and Brimstone? Grr.

Happy February. My brain is fried from having spent the morning in Hell. Otherwise known as the Tax Office.

Just the location itself is enough to give you the creeps. The district is my least favourite on either side of Jerusalem: driving through it, every driver is seized by an evil force to commit particularly unpleasant traffic crimes. Whatever the season, the area remains a nasty shade of grey. Strange neighbourhoods, filled with people who never smile, spring off the main road at every junction. There is a rumour that this area was built upon the ruins of Deir Yassin: that could definitely explain the yuck-mosphere.

Then there is the building itself within which Hell is housed. Descending into the ill-lit part underground lake, part dank dungeon to park your car is probably the highlight of any trip to the Tax Office. For the waiting area awaits.

I take a queue ticket from the machine. 79 people are in front of me, according to the pinging-thing. Most of them are crowded into the tiny space, glowering at anything or anyone who looks like a potential queue-jumper. I start to fill out the form which will determine just how ridiculous the tax I pay will be in relation to my pathetic salary. And then my pen gallingly decides that this moment is it's predestined time to run out of ink.

"Um- anyone got a Pen?"

An innocent question. Asked by someone, I might add, with a non-threatening demeanour- I look tired and drained, but not that scary. Yet nobody wants to help me out in this crisis of stationery. Responses to my pen plea range from blank stares to outright hostility: One woman, facing me, looks away as if she can't hear me. A man starts muttering "See, they take so much money from us, she can't even afford a pen that works. What a country..." Eventually, after I have now asked the question 4 times, a nice Russian lady hands me her pen. I thank her in Russian, going the extra mile to express my heartfelt gratitude, which in this moment of pen-strife is more deeply heartfelt than normal. This turns out to be a mistake, because she now wants her Tax form explained to her in Russian, and my command of that language is limited mainly to beverage-related phrases. Luckily I am saved by a fluent elderly gentleman who seems eager for the distraction.

So in the time that it has taken me to fill out the form (including the Pen Crisis), the number of people in front of me in the queue has shrunk by a collosal 2. Oh Joy. Good that I brought something with me to do- oh, wait, the book is in the car alongside the spare pen. Clever! I peruse the crossword puzzles and books of psalms very considerately left out by the Tax office people for the hoi polloi to pass the wait by: I pass. I send a few SMS. Then I remember that a) I should stop as I am poor, hence the need to sort out tax and -get paid! b) "I'm at the Tax Office" is not up there as a bona fide conversation starter. Meanwhile, cellphones play symphonies, people hold their private conversations in Surround Sound. I'm subjected to plumbing, insurance, kiddie and car issues, and those are only the languages I understand.

6 more people down- 71 to go.

There are only so many demographic analyses one can do on one's cellphone speedial memory. After one hour, there are still 33 people in front of me. I notice that out of 15 desks in the office itself, just 4 have clerks. 4. I love this country. A woman enters with 8 shopping bags, clutching the number she took earlier. 5 minutes later hers is called, and she smugly swans in setting off a public outrcy in the row in front of me: apparently the only "kosher" way to visit the tax office is to sit and suffer with the other suckers. Oh well, at least their rage provides a distraction.

Hmm. I wonder if anyone ever tried arriving at the office at the crack of dawn, grabbing a whole load of low numbers and then selling them outside for a tidy profit? I am just contemplating a career in ticket-racketing when the security guard walks in. He looks about 15, and barks out "Sit Down! Security!" before casting a furtive eye around the room in an exaggerated manner. "Ooh! We're all much safer now!" I think to myself. A minor chuckle from nearby English-speakers and a stern scowl from the guard himself, who comes over to give me what I think he meant to be an intimidating stare while I try not to laugh, denotes that I was thinking out loud- too loud. I put my head down and try not to fall asleep.

Finally, my number is approaching- I take my place under a fake plastic tree in what I have determined to be the unofficial "nearly there" section. The indiscriminate hatred of those behind me in the queue is burning a hole in the back of my coat (which already has plenty of holes in it, thank you very much). Then, as if by magic, my number is called... and 3 minutes later I am outta there. I hare back through those mean streets to rush the precious documents to Accounts. And find that the woman who was chasing me to get it done this morning has in fact taken the day off.

How nice for her. I can only wish her as unproductive a 110 minutes at some stage during her time away from the office as I enjoyed this morning at her behest.

There's only one thing to be done after enduring such annoyance. I'm off to the mini-market.