l’Assurance Maladie (Part 2)

It’s a bright Parisian morning. I’m listening to ZZ Top’s “Legs” in the Parc Montsouris  which was the venue for my Swedish Gym triumph. I’m not taking part today though – too lazy you see. I’m all up for buying in to new experiences, but I’m in no way, shape or form obligated to be a loyal customer. Anyway, I’m sat on a bench watching the class be put through their paces and I’m particularly enjoying the performances of a cheeky little toddler who’s trying to follow the steps (she’d definitely show me up) and a nutter in a mustard coloured dress-shirt and brown corduroys. He’s running around clapping his hands and clicking his heels with no regard to what the rest of the class is doing. He’s gone rogue. This man is now my hero, even if he is a half-wit. Back to the point though, I thought now would be as good a time as ever to write the second half of my Health Insurance debacle. I must look so sophisticated typing on my laptop while everyone else is here to work out. (By sophisticated, I mean like an arsehole). Anyway, here goes...

 

I googled 'French Nurse'. Sue me.

You may remember that I came away from my last visit with one measly attestation form to fill in. Since then I have found out that I didn’t even need to go to the centre to get this - I could have saved myself the time, effort and bother by downloading it. Isn’t that wonderful? No point being bitter though – if anything, my last experience taught me to be better prepared this time around. I had no intention of making any more visits to the looney bin this year!

I spent the night before my excursion running through some phrases with “the missus”; the logic being that if I could remember them by heart, I’d be much more comfortable in saying them out loud when the time came. We’d even have time for a quick recap in the morning.  Unfortunately for me however, I am what one would call a lazy git and by the time I woke up the next day (let’s just say it wasn’t before midday) my girlfriend had already gone to work. No last minute cramming after all. I was still quite confident though – a lot of what we had discussed the night before had miraculously stuck in my more-often-than-not useless ol’ noggin. I was confident and it showed in the way I got ready that morning. A Hollywood montage showing me running through phrases as I paced the flat and cleaning my teeth with intermittent nods of assurance in the mirror would have been fitting. It was epic. I walked with so much swagger on my way to l’assurance maladie it almost hurt. As I got to the building I pushed the button on the ticket machine with an authority that let the public know I was no arse scratching buffoon, but someone who was here to get a job done. I could see a couple of first timers in there – their feet shuffled once too many times and their eyes were just that little bit too busy for them to pass themselves off as seasoned veterans like myself. I pitied them.

I marched to the desk with purpose when my number was called, and of course it was my nemesis from the week before who was guarding the post. A mixture of gratitude and disappointment came over me as I realised she didn’t remember me as the English moron from a week ago. Predictably, her opening gambit was a flurry of French that was trop rapide for me to catch. Experience told me to hand over my ticket. Experience was right. It gave me my first opportunity to riposte, albeit at less than half the pace and fluidity; “Bonjour”, I boomed, “je suis venu la semaine derniere pour proposer ma demande etre ayant droit. Alors, maintenant je pense que j’ai tout les documents.” [Roughly: “Alright love, I was in your gaff just the other day tryin’ to sort out my insurance and that. I reckon I’ve got the whole caboodle you asked for). I’m not sure whether the French I used was perfect or not, but I said it with conviction to show her I was no pushover. Before I let her retaliate and bamboozle me with Round 2, I handed over an envelope so that I looked important. It photocopies of my birth certificate, passport and all manner of other documents I thought would be relevant to my application (all meticulously compiled by my assistant*). When she pointed me in the direction of the utopian waiting room beyond I knew my attack had been successful. This fight was over, but honestly, I felt a little disappointed. Of course I was glad to have made it to the sacred mint green, linoleum paradise, it’s just that it seemed a little too easy and anti climactic. Either way, I took my place on one of the acrylic seats, picked up a leaflet and pretended I could understand it. 

Before long I was called into one of the private consultation areas. I hoped it would be someone that didn’t have a rod jammed quite so tightly up their arse like the bint that was on the first desk. As I stepped forward into the booth, I was delighted to see that I was confronted by the French equivalent of Damon Beesley, although in fairness, he was slightly less camp. But if Le Marais has taught me anything, it is that the French gay population seem to like the look of a tall, slim English bloke. I have had more lustful looks from men in the few times I have visited Le Marais than I have had from women in my whole life. Play the trump card again? Mais bien sûr mes amis! I sat down and gave it the old je ne parle pas... routine in my most English of accents. The old queen bloody loved it.  I turned it up a notch and told him, mais je voudrais essayer de parler en francais. His eyes practically exploded. I then simply gave him the exact same routine as I gave to dragon-face from earlier. Bingo. I watched as he pored over my information (that sentence is strictly literal – no innuendo or euphemisms intended whatsoever). I nearly pushed him over the edge with a timid, C’est bon? The look on his face spoke a thousand words – even if all was not bon, he would have made it so. He gathered all of my documents and lovingly stapled them together (again, not a euphemism). He then told me (in broken English) that he thought it was great I had tried to speak to him in French. He assured me that he would take care of my file (behave...) and that all would be sorted in a matter of weeks. 

On reflection, it appears I successfully flirted my way to a carte vitale. I’m as yet undecided as to whether I’m proud of that or not. Either way, all I have to do now is to wait for the information to be processed, and my social security card will be sent to me in the post. Ahhh La Poste, another of those remarkably reliable and efficient French services...

*My “assistant” is actually my girlfriend. Watching too much Mad Men makes me misogynistic – I don’t mean it really. I blame TV... I hope she doesn’t read this.