I interrupt the trip posting, which shall soon continue ad nauseum, to rant-eth ... just a tad.
Not being the brightest lightbulb on the ceiling, there are some things that I simply don't get.
Six or seven years ago, my provincial health card completely fell apart. It was the cumulative effects of my ponderous posterior sitting on my wallet for several decades.
So, I got myself a new one: new colours, photo id. Spiffy.
It seemed like no sooner did I get it, than I reached a magical birthday and had to renew it. New picture, proof of citizenship, residence — the whole bit. When we moved, didn't I have to do it all over again. And now that five years hath yeah verily elapsed, I've had to go through the whole procedure yet again.
I really don't mind in a way because health care costs money, tons of money, and there have been scams. So, it's good to know that Big Brobro is keeping track.
Or is he?
Cuppa, who has a photo-less, old card never has to update her card. Never ever. Well, except to notify of a change of address when we moved.
Her card is the best part of forty years old, I guess, and she never has to prove anything to anybody. She and her card just keep on rolling merrily along the health care highway, apparently unseen to bureaucratic eyeballs.
Meanwhile, AC must do the updating dance every five years — or sooner — even though it has his photo right on the card and his sweet countenance doesn't change much from one half decade to the next: new photo, proof of citizenship, proof that he lives where he lives, the whole flippin bit.
Such bureaucracy doth causeth AC to shaketh his head—Eth.