B is for Bureaucracy

I Googled the definition: “an excessively complicated administrative procedure.”

I’m feeling a bit wrapped in red tape at the moment. While poised to have a minor procedure done at the hospital, I was notified—via post, on the Friday before the Monday scheduled—that it would be “unfortunately postponed,” and the date the NHS has chosen  later in November doesn’t suit me. I suppose I’m mostly miffed because I carefully planned my work and social calendar around the minor procedure going forward, knowing I’d need some time away from the office. I’d sent out a note to colleagues and friends, too, only to have the time away not materialise. With other irons in the fire for the rest of this year including the other wee bit of red tape I’m wrapping my head around—my immigration status—it’s not going to be easy to find another suitable time this year. Fortunately it’s not urgent and if it rolls into 2014 I will be fine – I’m just whining because I worked hard at choosing a period that suited me professionally and personally only to be told I’ve been rescheduled. Friends have suggested I go “private,” meaning pay a small fee through my private insurance (a luxury through my company) and just do it. I’ve decided to try to save the dosh and give the NHS another chance.

I am feeling a bit overwhelmed, but only just, with the impending settlement application, aka indefinite leave to remain. It’s not the cost—I’ve been saving up—but just the administrative ladder I’ve only started to climb. I booked a Life in the UK test at the local office. The test allows 45 minutes to get 18 of 24 questions correct. £50 (prepaid, of course). Immediate results provided. I’ve had the study guide for a few weeks now and will give it another read through before the test. I find it a bit funny that I get worked up over taking these tests—I suppose it’s natural, but I still get a bit jittery thinking about having to pass; what if I get all the questions about percentages and don’t remember them? Well, seven days later (and another £50) I can always give it another go.

I also managed to successfully work the system and book a “premium” appointment to submit my application for ILR and have a same-day decision made. The posts on the internet made the possibility of securing an appointment seem dire, with people logging on at midnight to secure appointments or paying premiums to solicitors to secure an in-person session, paying an additional £200 on top of the £300 the premium appointment already commands. (The alternative is to go via the post and be sans passport for months, or secure an appointment with a settlement-checking authority which also has a small fee but allows you to keep your original passport).

I also read about how to best complete the calendar (or not) to get the date range you want. The good: it only took me a handful of tries to secure a slot. The bad: it will likely be all day long. The ugly: it’s in Croydon.

OK, so apologies to those who have a warm place in one’s heart for Croydon, but having been to Lunar House before I can say it’s simply not a lovely place to spend a day. Service mostly feels abrupt, even when you buy a sandwich at the kiosk. The seating is uncomfortable, and there is generally quite a bit of waiting around as you move from one queue to another. For my £300 there should at least be a cushion and the BBC news to keep you from becoming agitated while you wait.

I just had a thought: when you go the Shakespeare’s Globe you can rent a cushion for a £1 as all the benches are wood. Business opportunity?

Having downloaded the form several weeks ago and had a chat with Tim about locating required  accompanying documentation, I thought I’d take a walk through the 35 pages to see how prepared I was. We’ve been dutifully collecting the documents we need to “prove” that we’ve been together the last two years, and then there’s the bank statements and marriage papers and payslips that show I’m not draining the country by using public funds and I can afford to stay . . . that’s the easy part, more or less (I bank electronically so have had to request previous statements, and we don’t get payslips anymore but we do have access to them online). The interesting part will come when Tim and I have to agree on when we became a couple, LOL. It’s not that complicated, but as we were friends for a bit while Tim was “showing me around London,” as he likes to say, the inevitable question of when did that change needs to be penned in and put to memory, just in case we’re interviewed separately in Croydon. I’d hate to get that wrong and walk away £1346 pounds lighter and with no visa stamped in my passport. (I really don’t think that would happen, by the way; we don’t look the type to be passing off a sham marriage.)

I dusted off my 2009 diary and looked for clues for that date. Don’t get me wrong—I do remember the weekend well, just not the exact date. (Tim doesn’t remember either.) I see Tim’s name scribbled on a few Fridays in February and March, along with dinners with friends and other social engagements. There are a few options, but I am settling on 27 February as something in my mind says it was not quite March.

I quite enjoyed the stroll back in time, glad that I kept the calendar. I don’t keep many things, but I held on to my diaries in the event I had to list the days I was not in the UK—I recall my first immigration meeting when I was told it would be good to keep track of all of my days away from the UK—you’re only allowed so many during your residency when applying for citizenship. One’s passport is a good record, but sometimes I can’t make heads or tails of those stamps!

Rain at the Welsh, church to right

That brief travel back in time found me looking at the date of my first trip to Boulogne, France, with Tim  in March of 2009. We recently took a return trip to buy some inexpensive French wine, have a stroll around town, and have a different view of the sea. We have a regular stopping point at the Welsh Pub, in the centre of town and steps away from the church of St Nicolas. It’s nice to sit outside, but on this Saturday afternoon it rained and we were happy to be dry and indoors sipping our rose and feasting on large bowls of moules. For the first time I can recall we saw a wedding at the church, and in a later stroll that day saw the bride and groom being photographed sur la mer.

Since we took the car on the ferry we had the opportunity to travel out a bit and see some of the neighbouring area. When buying postcards in Boulogne, Tim took note of one of the beaches that looked lovely—Hardelot plage—and on Sunday morning, owing to my desire to have a long walk on any beach, we found ourselves there. It was quiet initially, though by the time we were headed back to the car there were many more people and animals of all ages strolling with us.

Hardelot is a very quiet town this time of year—most of the hotels and apartments facing the beach were vacant, and there are no shops open along the stretch of sand—small wooden huts that probably sell glacee or drinks were shuttered. It didn’t matter; we were there to walk and relax and that we did, taking in kite surfers, kite flyers and “sand yachts”—low-seated plastic vehicles on wheels with a sail to scoot along the beach. There were even a few horses occupying the sand, which went on for miles, with us. I was amazed at the surfers, using rectangular kites strapped to harnesses around their waists, riding the waves on short surfboards with no foot binding. Everyone I saw was fit, and I could see why—when on land, the wind was pulling the surfers along with the kite as harness was still attached, and I could see how some of them had to fight to stay grounded!

We had a wonderful weekend—walking, relaxing, and eating at local brassieres we just wandered into (rather than researched). I’ll admit I wouldn’t recommend the hotel we stayed at—it was clean, and the petit dejeuner was quite nice with fresh croissants, yogurt, fruit, and good coffee—but it was a bit worn at the edges. The shower was set inside a very small tub that had a built-in seat making for very little standing room. Tim mentioned some loose springs in the bed, too. There are certainly other hotels in the area that are far nicer for just a few euro more.

On our return journey to England the weather suddenly became turbulent and we had to sit for a bit on the ferry while the wind shifted enough for the captain to get us safely docked. While waiting we had the delight of seeing a double rainbow. How’s that for a fitting end to a lovely weekend?

And, before I forget and while I’m in French mode . . . we said au revoir to Maggie, the Little Blue Peugeot Who Could . . . Almost. Well, to be fair she only let me down occasionally, but it was enough to not feel terribly confident in driving even on the less hectic Isle of Wight—if she even started (or didn’t stall). The car was purchased as an experiment to see how often we’d use it, and whether it was truly worthwhile to have when most of the time it would sit idly, sometimes for weeks. She proved to be a good little vehicle, hauling ropes and sails and ladders and even doors in her interior. But I wanted something to be used in the winter, and be reliable, and sadly Maggie wasn’t the one.

Meet Roux (French for redhead) . . . several years younger and with far fewer miles under her hood, I think she’ll prove a very reliable replacement. Maggie is off to auction, probably worth slightly more than the £200 the garage gave me to take her in part exchange. Roux the Renault is in fine shape inside and out, and she drives quite nicely. Most important, the Clio fits snugly into the small parking space in the mews. She’s had a few short outings and I suspect with Coh Karek spending her winter in the marina she will have a few more. There is so much to see on the interior of the Isle of Wight that’s not necessarily accessible by foot or bicycle or bus, and I’m looking forward to doing some of that exploration in the winter months.

Now I’m off to study for my test . . . do you know what percentage of the population of Great Britain belongs to England? J