The cocktail ottoman keeps me sane.

I've been on a bit of an Irish-love kick recently, even after i went home and cried on the plane on the way back.  My missing home is not Ireland's fault and I think my good mood has something to do with our apartment, a place that contantly make me happy with it's space and it's kitchen and my awesome cocktail ottoman.

Today, though, the license inspector stopped by to tell us that we didn't have a TV license. A license for our TV. Just in case it feels like going out for a drive or sell liquor. Or both at once.

Really, a TV license is a piece of paper that tells the inspector that we have paid our outragious fee to the government for the privilege of purchasing cable and a television and owning a TV. In the UK this is almost a good fee because it pays for the BBC which is supposively a good new source, although shows programs like "Can Fat Kids Hunt?" and "Sex...with Mum and Dad". In Ireland most of it funds RTE which creates THE WORST PROGRAMMING IN THE HISTORY OF TELEVISION like "Come West Along the Road". The other little bit goes towards banning light bulbs.

Bub produced our paid for TV license for the inspector who looked through his sheet and still didn't see us on it. We told him how we rerouted it to our new apartment and then called to say that we moved to our new apartment, and then got a letter wondering why we didn't have a TV license at our old apartment. UM, maybe because it's AT THE NEW APARTMENT? I don't know, it is a mystery. The inspector said that in the amending process it must have just been deleted.

€158 and An Post can't learn the difference between edit and delete. I'm thisclose to getting rid of our TV. I don't want anyone to break a sweat.

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Liz in Dublin