Actually, I rarely moan about the queue in my Post Office because we still have a tiny village one and there is rarely more than one person in it and even if that one person is Mrs. Babbage who insists on regaling the Post Master with the Babbage family history beginning circa 1952 which he has only heard 382 times before and which I have also heard several times before because she tells it in the Butcher's and the Newsagent's which provides me with the time either to wrestle with the temptation to murder Mrs. Babbage and her entire family, or, simply give up the will to live. Oh, the joys of village life in the West Country. Where was I ...? Oh yes, queues!
If you do have a problem with queues, fret no more, instead go over to Tim Newman's always fascinating site and first of all read how many proles it takes to sell a light bulb in Russia, and then enjoy(?) the fun and games to be had in Mother Russia, where old habits (and people!) die hard, and where all visitors are required to register with the KGB authorities.
I am guilty sometimes of undue nervousness when it comes to Russia now that it is in the hands of a criminal gang but Tim's first-hand reports on the hopeless inefficiency of the place cheers me up no end.
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