How to begin a wonderful life
by Drew Taylor
As most things do, it started with an apparently innocuous question framed inelegantly. The question was, "How do you get to be Prime Minister?" He had the answer. "You fill in a form."
Although he was certain his answer was correct, which it was, because she looked at him with an expression of puzzlement he went on to explain, "You fill in a form and post it off with a payment of one pound forty nine. If you want to pay by cheque it should be made payable to The Queen. There's no refund. And don't forget to put a stamp on the envelope."
She was surprised it was that simple. "Is that it? You fill in a form? Anyone can fill in a form and get to be Prime Minister?"
"Not just anyone," he corrected. "They take all the forms and put them in a hat. Then they draw the winner out of the hat. That’s how you get to be Prime Minister."
She had a good question, or so she thought, so she asked it. "Is that how Mrs. Thatcher got to be Prime Minister?"
He didn't hesitate. "How else? She'd never have got the job any other way."
She frowned.
"The same goes for the rest of them," he added in answer to her unspoken question.
While she thought this might be true, which it was, still she was sceptical about the procedure.
"Where do you get the forms?"
"From the Post Office."
"Really? From the Post Office? You don't have to send away for one - like, to The Queen or anybody?"
"The Post Office has application forms for many, many things: TV licences, licences for a job sweeping the streets –"
"You need a licence for that?"
"Of course. Otherwise everybody would be sweeping the streets. It's the ideal job but only the best need apply. You ask any street sweeper what university he went to. He'll probably reply Oxford or Cambridge. There are more university graduates sweeping the streets than ever before. Ask yourself why."
"What other things can you apply for at the Post Office?"
"Insurance, savings accounts, forgiveness, membership of the College of Cardinals if you're over eighty…"
"Did you say forgiveness?"
"Oh, yes. But every time I go, they've run out of application forms. I reckon they must be used up very quickly such is the demand."
She thought about this for a minute. "What did you need forgiveness for? Was it bad? Was it really bad?"
He wondered how best to reply. He decided not to be too specific. "Worse than you could imagine. But that's the beauty of the system – you fill in the application form, post it off – with the right payment, of course - and they send you a certificate saying All is forgiven."
"Does it cost much?"
"For really bad things, nine pounds ninety nine pence. Discounts are available for multiple applications. The cheapest certificate costs fifty pence, but that's for children who don't know any better. That’s only fair, don't you think?"
"It's only nine pounds ninety nine pence for something really bad? That’s not much! Why bother getting a certificate if it's that cheap?"
He gave her a look which said there was a very good reason. "Being able to produce a certificate saying All is forgiven might definitely come in handy one day. Who knows when you might be asked to explain yourself?"
She thought about it. It seemed a fair point. "I suppose you're right."
Later that day, she came up to him and said, "I've got one. I've got one of the application forms from the Post Office.
