Beureaucratic Crap.Or However You Spell It.

So with my father moving, I have to change my address wiht all sorts of people.

I just had the following conversation on the phone to the government.

“Hello. I’d like to change my address, please.”

“Fine,” comes the indescribably bored voice. She asks for my birthday, my previous address and all kinds of things like that. Then: “Who did you work for in 2004?”

What? “Uhm…” I name the place I think I was at. Score! I was right!

Then she asks where else I worked. She has a T4 on record for 200 dollars. I can’t actually remember how I made two hundred dollars two years ago.

She sighs. A big, bored sigh like I’m her mother and she’s fifteen and I don’t understand anything about her. “I also need your Line 150.”

“My Line 150?”

“Your total income for that year.”

“Oh.” I can’t remember. “Can it be approximate?”

“It has to be exact. We send them to you every year. You are supposed to keep them for six years.”

“Oh. What do you suggest I do?”

“I don’t know. I can’t send you anything until you give me your address. You can’t give me your address until I know your Line 150.”

What a fabulous system.

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