In March, I went to submit my annual tax report in Bratislava. I mentally prepared myself to face a long queue and the clerks’ unpleasant faces. I entered the big hall and somebody directed me to an office where a pleasant lady quickly checked my papers, asked me to complete one missing detail and here I was, done in about 10 minutes with no accompanying trauma.
It was a rainy day but my mood was bright. Waiting at the bus station with fellow fans of the Bratislava public transport in front of two big potholes in the pavement, it became clear that the god of probabilities worked against us so we all got our fair share of mud sprayed on our clothes. No bus could avoid them as they were strategically placed right where the buses had to stop. But as I promised myself to keep the good vibe from the tax office, I was sure the stains would not be visible on my dark trousers.
