a simple yarn

We’ve all had ‘em…and would like to forget ‘em.

Today was the day to go to Immigration. We’ve gone through this process every year for the past five years. We only needed to upgrade my stamp from a Glorified-Tourist to a Dependent-Of-A-Work-Permit-Holder. Sounds more official, don’t ya think? So, knowing the system would seemingly make it a bit easier…right?

Nope.

The day goes something like this…(get comfy, grab a coffee, it’s a saga…I’ll try to be brief)

Drop kids at school at 9 o’clock. Bus coming as I approach bus stop. Good omen.

Walk into Immigration Bureau. Stand in queue to show paperwork to guy behind window so that I can get a ticket with a number and wait in another queue. Queue line starts to move. I get number. I am No. 90. They are calling No. 50. I pull out my knitting. In less than 2 hours from walking in, I ring Husband-Will who is around corner having coffee with a friend. ‘We’re at No. 80,’ I say, ‘come on over.’ Gotta have Husband-Will-Holder-Of-Work-Permit to be there. Get to window. It’s only 11.30, not too bad, I think to myself.

Warning: Knitting Diversion Ahead
For the observant, you will notice that these are not spotty felted clogs I’m working on. Found a barely begun cast-on work that I thought I better finish up first. What you see is the beginning of a felted beret, part of the Festival of Summer Christmas Knitting.

I couldn’t help but notice that my row counter was moving at twice, nay five times the speed, of the queue counter. Hmmm…..

Hand all my paperwork to lad who looks to be about 12. It must be casual Friday because all the young-male-workers-who-also-look-to-be-about-12 have their faded jeans and mall-wear-short-sleeved-shirts on. My lad has black leather wristbands and a spike through his lip. He’s not smiling. It’s Friday after all and the place is filled with foreigners, like me.

‘Right,’ he says, ‘I need your marriage certificate.’
‘Wha’?’ say I.
‘You need a marriage cert,’ he says plainly, wondering if English is my first language.
‘Crap,’ I say to myself. Aloud I say, ‘I don’t have it here, but have got it at home.’
‘I’ll be here til 4pm. You don’t need to queue again.’ Quite decent of him, although frankly it looked like it pained him to be humane about it.

Checking my watch to see it going on noon and then realise that my marriage certificate is not at home, but 30 miles away in safe keeping at the Lodge in the Dublin Mountains. Arg! Ring Lucy-Of-The-Lodge to see if anyone is home. ‘Sure,’ they say, ’someone will be here.’

Take the bus to the car. Take the car to the motorway. It’s Friday. Traffic is snarled. Construction. Tick tock.

Finally make it to the mountains. One o’clock. No one is home. Door is open. Dogs are running around. No humans to be found. Imagining myself in a horror flick where someone is sure to jump out from behind the door, I timidly creep into the house, ‘yoo-hoo-ing’ as I go. Nope. Nobody there. Our documents are in the study, I know. So, feeling like a right proper burglar, I walk quickly and quietly to the study. Can’t find our portfolio of documents. Rats. What am I going to do? Waiting. Waiting. Nobody comes. Have another look around. Aha! Sitting under a binder, I see the corner of our folder. Right, time to fly.

As I head back toward the city centre I then realise that I am now heading into heavy traffic and I have no idea where to park. Unfamiliar one-way streets. Anxiety level increases exponentially. Finally get to the quays along the river. I know where I am, now if I can only find a parking spot. Dash into the first one I find. Whew! Put enough money in the machine for one hour. That should do it. I don’t need to queue again. Stick the ticket on the dash and off I go.

Have a few blocks to walk. Could have parked closer, but that’s always a gamble. A bird in the hand… Besides, the little bit of walking will help me blow off some of the accumulated anxiety. I go to Window 12 where ‘Spike’ was working. Empty chair. ‘Where’d he go?’ I ask a fellow-adolescent-co-worker. ‘He’s on break,’ is the non-smiling reply. ‘He’ll be back in 30 minutes.’ Cripes! Wasting precious parking time. Ah well, nothing for it. So I sit and wait.

At 2.30 on the dot, I hover around Window 12, waiting for Spike to return. Five or ten minutes later he appears, still not smiling. Don’t quite blame him at this point. I’m not smiling either.

Finally get through the necessary paperwork and I await my new green card. I’ve got about 15-20 minutes left on the meter. ‘How long do you think it will take for the cards to be printed?’ I ask, in a hope-it-sounds-convincing pleasant-and-conversational tone. ‘Oh about 15 minutes or so.’ is the reply.

Decision. Do I risk it or do I use the time to walk back and feed the meter?

After today, I decide to err on the side of caution and add more money. Clink, clink. In goes change for another hour. I go to put the ticket in my car. Pull out my keys to unlock the door. Geesh! The door’s been unlocked for the last hour! Noticing a sea of broken window glass strewn along the foothpath I guess I’m saving any would-be car thief the extra time of bashing the window to get in.

Right. Put the new ticket on the dash and remember to lock the door. I walk the few blocks back to wait for my new card and as I walk in I hear my name being called. I look at my watch. Five minutes to spare on the first round of parking. It figures.

So, as I walk back to the car, tired but happy to have a valid green card in my hand and a bounty of time on the meter, I get to the car, peek through the windshield. Uh oh, no parking receipt. What? Opening the door, I see where it had fallen to the floor. Face down.

Now, given the overall theme of the day, the appropriate ending to this saga would be to say that indeed my car was sporting a new tyre clamp. But thankfully and quite uneventfully, that is not the case and I took my tired self home for a well-deserved lie down.