Tip of the day: Take muscle relaxants before approaching UK border security.
Having made my way from Gourgé in an all day affair, which included the TGV to Paris, overland train to the coast, evening ferry to the UK, I was now back on HM's territory. This could not be mistaken with the recorded messages overhead from a direct talking English female about moving along, and not leaving baggage unattended reminiscent of dark scenes from "Children of Men". Meanwhile, the near freezing temps concerted with the heavy rain, completing the scene that could only be England. Not that the were happy to see me…
UK immigration seem a bit strict these days and no leniency is awarded to their distant cousins from Oz. Having made a special attempt at legibility, the officer regarded my handwriting on the landing card and then regarded my passport. Questions about where I was staying ensued, relationship with my host, how long, when I was leaving, nature of visit… all the regular stuff. Not completely satisfied, the questioning then went to my departing flight. Unflapped, I told him cheerfully about my forward flight to Montreal in 2 days time. "What time is the flight?", he inquired.
"Not sure", I said.
And with that he had found the chink in my story. Told to step aside while he dealt with young Spanish lad who's tampered drivers license was his means of identification, I was booting my computer to find my itinerary for viewing at his pleasure.
With the rain still pattering on the roof of the temporary shed used for immigration, the students situation had now been complicated by an interpreter engaged by telephone giving him an ear bending about the bother he was causing.
Attention returned to me. With forward flight on display, he then inquired about how I paid for it.
"Mastercard", I said, in a priceless moment. "Can I see it?".
This was now getting beyond a joke for this easy going Aussie… but what choice is there but to comply. "What do you need my card for???", I pondered, "Want to pick up something for the wife?" was unsaid.
With all this done his demeanour still somewhat on the tangent of disdain, I secretly started to direct my thoughts toward muscle relaxation in places that I would not normally. This could be a long night and I wanted it as painless as possible.
At this moment the border guy thought it now satisfactory that I had been kept to last. (The spanish lad with tattered drivers license had got through now). I was invited to enter the UK and pilled my things together and made for the flooded car park. Lucky for me, Sarah Simpson, English lass and fellow "Best Job" applicant was waiting in her Smart car.
The cheery welcome dissipated the prior experience, "Fancy dropping into my pub on the way home?" was her invite.
Ten minutes later in the warm confines of her local, I had been introduced to most people present and had a large jar of local to dispose of, followed by another and another. As an Aussie in the UK, in winter I was bit of oddity and the joking and stories went well past closing.
Sarah has to be one of the most cheerful people I have ever met. Challenged by workplace, mortgages, the English "credit crunch", her determination for the Best Job was clear and she was applying herself with plenty of energy. Blue hair, an inviting video, informed, a Facebook competition to increase coverage, radio and newspaper appearances all part of her campaign.
In the morning, she showed me about. The serious rain from the night prior had caused flooding. Surprising, I thought they had been perfecting their infrastructure for about 1500 years… and still a night of rain took a serious toll on their road network. O well, we were not to worry - we found a nice spot in the sun and shot an interview about her application completing my time in the South of England. Time to make for London!
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John
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