Begging for a laugh

The queue went round the drab soulless room as we all shuffled against each other, bopping up and down from chair to chair, squeaking on the wooden floor, waiting to speak to the civil servant in charge. Housing benefit, rent allowance, mortgage relief, all payments to help keep a roof over our heads. More of life’s down-at-heel joined us, trailing out the door and down the stairs, sitting and standing in silence as if a large sign hung over the door: QUIET PLEASE OR ELSE WE WON’T HELP YOU!

A book, stuffed in my bag as I left the house, became my refuge in this vigil; we were in it for the long haul, no one would escape until they had gone on their knees to beg, one more time, for the most basic of help. I’d get it or I wouldn’t get it but I was damned if I was going to sit there and worry about it. Out came the book, My Family and Other Animals, and I got stuck in. It wasn’t long before I snorted with laughter at some ridiculous situation that Gerald Durrell found himself in. I quickly suppressed my giggles, back to the story, back to Corfu and mother and a succession of creatures that would make me scream had they appeared from under my bed. Silent again, but not for long, as another helpless titter escaped from my otherwise sealed lips. And so it went on as Durrell did his level best to make me howl with laughter. It was as if he was sitting there tickling me while whispering hilarious jokes in my ear.

Nearly two hours later I left the building, cheque in hand, sidelong glances following me as I escaped, probably wondering what substance I was on or which institution had let me out for the day!