I love going to the district administration
office. No errand is too small for
me not to jump at the opportunity. I love the traditional temple-style
building, the hushed corridors, the sound of rain water dripping from broken gutters into the
cobblestoned courtyard. I love the extra offices that have been haphazardly
added to the main building, the plywood floorboards that creaking and groan underfoot.
On this particular occasion I visit the
payroll officer who has lost my account details by mistake. “So, sorry la,” she
says, looking up from her Facebook screen of family snaps of her friend’s
uncle’s cousins. “I guess I should write it down, la.” She takes out a pen and
slowly inscribes the number on the wall of her cubicle, where it sits proudly
alongside another hundred or so numbers. “Sir Matt” is written neatly beside
it.
At least I know that when I return to
Australia and my short-lived eminence is forgotten by all, my legacy will live
on in an office cubicle wall above some creaking plywood floorboards in the
accounts section of the district administration office.
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