In the course of our everyday life
petty officialdom frequently places in our path a host of silly little rules
and regulations which, as our Frenchie frequently observes, you Anglo-Saxons resignedly accept as insurmountable hurdles. You just don’t seem to realize it
only takes a modicum of resourceful and audacity – the very essence of the Système
D - to reduce them to mere stiles to be hopped over with ease. Nothing
illustrates this better than that masterpiece of bold inventiveness my Frenchie
is especially proud of, which got us round a little snag we had with the la
Poste, the Post Office,
last year. We’ll leave it to him to relate.
The other Saturday morning, on
getting back home from our weekly shopping, we found reposing in our letterbox
an official post office form, duly completed by the postman, informing us that
he’d called at precisely 10.50 a.m. with a lettre recommendée avec accusé de
reception, a registered letter whose receipt had to be acknowledged by the
signature of the recipient. However, in view of our absence he’d been obliged
to take it back to the main post office where it would be available for
collection the following Monday morning from eight o’clock onwards (the main
post office in the town where we live closes for the weekend at noon on
Saturdays). Now past experience has taught us that this sort of missive, often
arising from official sources, can, like tap water in foreign climes, be the
prelude to a messy business. Being a born worrier, our English half began to
fret so much about what it could contain that this threatened to spoil our weekend.
‘Well, we’re going to have to
wait until Monday morning to know what it’s all about!’ he muttered resignedly.
‘Pas du tout,
mon pauvre!’ I retorted. ‘Leave it to me. On va se débrouiller!’ It didn’t take me long to concoct a way of
getting round all this. Here’s what I did:
Picking up the phone, I called
the main post office and asked to speak to Monsieur le Receveur, the
Post Office Manager. Once I’d been put through I began by politely
explaining that I had in my hand a post office form which the postman had
deposited in our letterbox, informing us that he’d called at precisely 10.50
a.m. that morning with a registered letter which in view of our absence he’d
been obliged to take back to the post office.
Monsieur le Receveur replied – not, I noted, without a trace of
irritation - that he didn’t really understand why I was calling, as it was
certainly indicated on the post office form that the registered letter
would be available for collection on Monday from 8 o’clock onwards.
‘In addition,’ he added, ‘the
postman was simply following post office regulations.’
‘Do post office regulations
stipulate,’ I asked, ‘that before taking the registered letter back to the post
office, the postman should first use all reasonable means to
ascertain whether the addressee is, in fact, at home?’
Monsieur le Receveur confirmed that official post office procedure
did, in fact, require the postman to first use all reasonable means to
ascertain whether or not the addressee was, in fact, at home.
‘And does using all reasonable
means include ringing the doorbell or applying his knuckles to the door?’ I
then enquired.
‘En effet,’ Monsieur le Receveur replied, ‘official post
office regulations are to be interpreted in that sense.’
‘And is it your honest opinion
we can be absolutely sure the postman acted in full accordance with post office
regulations?’ I continued.
‘Since all postmen have received strict
instructions in this respect, monsieur,
I have no reason to believe that he did not act in full accordance with post
office regulations.’
‘But don’t you think that, since
I’ve not put a foot out all morning, some doubt might be cast on whether the
postman really acted in full accordance with post office regulations?’
‘Might I myself be justified in
thinking,’ the post office manager retorted, ‘that when the postman rang the
doorbell, you were engaged in some form of sonorous household activity - vacuum
cleaning, for instance - which prevented you from hearing him? But whatever the case may be, you’ll only
have to wait until eight o’clock on Monday morning,’ he went on, ‘so I don’t
really see where the problem is. And since I’m a busy man, would you please
forgive me for abridging this conver…’
‘On the contrary,’ I interrupted
(and here I showed all my inborn inventive genius), ‘there is a very real
problem. You see, I was expecting this registered letter. It contains vital
information, determining whether or not I take the six o’clock T.G.V.,
the High Speed Train, on Monday morning for an important nine o’clock business
meeting in Paris. And since I’ve spent all morning quietly reading the
newspaper, the only explanation for me not now being in possession of the
letter would seem to be due to the fact that the postman, for
reasons known only to him, did not act in accordance with post office
regulations.’ I paused for a moment to let my words sink in.
‘But, whatever the cause may
be,’ I continued, ‘there’s absolutely no question of me letting the matter rest
here. If I don’t obtain satisfaction, I’m going to lodge an official complaint.
So what do you suggest we do about it?’
After a long and heavy silence,
it was, I must confess, with some relief that I heard him pronounce those magic
words I was waiting to hear:
‘Bon.
Exceptionnellement, on va se débrouiller! Voici ce qu’on va faire.’
He then proposed the very solution I had in
mind. Though, normally, it would have been out of the question, in view of
these exceptional circumstances, he was prepared to bend the rule. Since it was
now going on for midday and the post office would be closing shortly, if I presented
ourself at his private flat located to the rear of the building, and identified
ourself by giving three sharp raps on the door, he would personally remit the
letter to us. This, of course, we did. Everything went without a hitch, the
contents of the registered letter weren’t half as bad as our Englishman had
thought, and we had an excellent weekend. C’est ça, le Système D. En France, on se débrouille!
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