Bureaucrats! Puh… Who Needs Them!

When my daughter was young I used to warn her of some of the pitfalls in life. I don’t mind one jot who you end up marrying, I used to stress, except never, ever, end up marrying a politician! In the end she did OK and no politician got anywhere close to her heart!  But if I could rewind time I guess I would have to add one more category to that injunction… nor end up marrying a bureaucrat!

 

OMG Bureaucrats! How I loathe them. The late, great, Sir Patrick Moore, who died last year, and for whom I once had the honour of  producing one of his programmes on the BBC’s World Service, was not only the anchorman of TV’s longest running show with the same presenter (The Sky At Night on BBC1), but was less well known as a self-appointed scourge of bureaucracy.  Some 30 years ago, under the pen-name R. T. Fishall, he published an irreverent guide to taking out vengeance on people who were burying Britain under paperwork and tying the country up in red tape.

 

‘Bureaucrats: How To Annoy Them’ was inspired by correspondence with a man from the Southern Gas Company, who had sent Moore a final demand for £10 of repairs, despite the fact that the central heating at his cottage was oil‑fired.

‘We are not ruled directly by Parliament,’ he wrote, ‘but by minor officials — bureaucrats of all descriptions, safely embraced in the arms of the civil service, with immunity from dismissal and nice, inflation-proof pensions.’

My last three months have been filled by the shenanigans of petty bureaucrats, and only now am I emerging from the tomfoolery of their actions. Let me explain…

 

As my last posting in Beijing was drawing to an end, I was already laying plans for my next port of call – the Philippines. ‘It’s more fun in the Philippines’ is the country’s latest pithy, hard-hitting slogan for attracting visitors from around the world.

 

 

Reading through the information posted on the web, it transpired that in order to get an SRRV – a special non-immigrant resident visa that provides its holders with multiple-entry and indefinite stay status in the Philippines – I would first need to prove that I wasn’t a criminal … a bit ironic, perhaps, given the fact that Manila is one of the crime capitals of the world, while politicians and bureaucrats at all levels in society make some of the corruption of even China’s corrupt officials look like mere child’s play (as witnessed by the current ‘Pork Barrel’ scandal, involving billions of siphoned off pesos, which illustrates this all too clearly).

 

Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained… and I set about attempting to get a police clearance certificate showing that I had a blemish-free past (assuming, of course, no one bothered checking on the fact that I was arrested in Saudi Arabia on three occasions!).

 

Now, if you’re a Brit abroad and want to get a Police Clearance Certificate, what do you do? My first thought was to go to the British Embassy for help. No way. The embassy in Beijing emphasises that they cannot help. Instead one has to apply from the UK itself, where not only must you fill in endless forms attesting to the fact that you are of upright character, but you also need a British doctor / nurse / accountant / lawyer / teacher / etc / etc signing the back of one of your photographs to say that the photo is really you. What happens if you have lived abroad for some time and don’t know any doctors,  nurses,  accountants, lawyers,  teachers, etcs? Too bad!

 

Luckily I did; and having filled out the forms, attached photographs and sent them off to the UK to be countersigned, they were then sent on to the Association of Chief Police Officers, together with a cheque for £45. And some two weeks later a certificate arrived proclaiming to the world that they could find no trace of a criminal record for your favourite blogger.

 

 

Next up, according to the instructions, I had to get the Philippines Embassy in my home country to attest to the fact that they had had sight of my police clearance certificate, together with proof that I received a monthly income of more than $800 – or just over £500.

 

The embassy, of course, is in London; my home is in Yorkshire – a five hour bus ride away. But no worries. When I finally arrive back in the UK from China I book a trip down to the capital (£15 return ticket on National Express) and present myself to the Philippines Embassy Consular section – not a stone’s throw away from Trafalgar Square.

 

 

I look at a wall full of forms for filling out, but they are all intended for Filipino nationals applying for various services – nothing remotely linked to attesting a UK piece of paper. So I grab a queuing number and wait for a free bureaucrat while watching a feed of a Pinoy TV station along with countless bored-looking Filipinos.

 

 

Finally my number is called and, pushing my clearance certificate and proof of income through a tiny slot, I explain what I’m after. Sorry, I am told by a bored-looking bureaucrat who looks anything but sorry; You need to get this authorised by the Foreign and Commonwealth Office before we can authorise it.
Why? I ask.
Because that is the rule.
OFGS!

 

I make my way over to the other side of Trafalgar Square where the FCO hang out, only to discover that since I was here last time (getting the paperwork in order for my China work visa) the system has been changed. A fed-up looking doorman tells me that I am the nth person this morning they have had to turn away.  FCO attestations are all now being done in Milton Keynes (three hours away), he tells me. I could try writing to them there.

 

But I need this in a hurry. Can I visit their office? No. According to their web site, only postal applications – taking up to ten days – are allowed. No visitors at all. This, according to the tripe they tell their ‘customers’ is ‘so they can offer a better, more efficient, service’.

 

First you have to go online and pay for the service you want – in this case attesting two documents is going to cost me £60, plus postage. Then you are given a reference number that you insert into the forms you have to fill in, proving you have paid for the service in advance before sending everything off in an A4 envelope to MK. You then wait for 2-3 working days after which your documents should be sent to your home address. Thank goodness I am at least in the UK now as I doubt I could have done this from abroad.

 

The system works, and a few days later I am the proud owner of yet another piece of paper which says the first piece of paper from the Police is genuine. (I wonder why no-one asks for a piece of paper attesting to the fact that the FCO piece of paper is genuine, but hold my tongue.)

 

I book another bus journey down to London, allowing enough time for the embassy to process my application, which I have been told should take no more than three hours.

 

I arrive at the embassy and shove my sheaf of papers through the tiny slot in front of the Filipino bureaucrat. Please pay £18 for each document at the window opposite, I am told, only after which they inform me that due to staff shortages and the fact that their computer system was down the previous day, I could not now have my papers back until the following Tuesday (it being Friday today).

 

But I specifically booked my ticket to the Philippines on Monday, after you told me last time that I could get the paperwork completed in three hours, I wail. They relent. I can get my paperwork on the Monday, but certainly not today.

 

The weekend passes and for the third time I take a bus down to London, leaving in the middle of the night to ensure that I get there when the embassy opens in the morning. Hurrah! The paperwork has been completed (and from the look of things was even finished on the Friday. I am not amused.)

 

 

So far I have shelled out the not inconsiderable sum of £45 (ACPO) + £60 (FCO) + £36 (Embassy) + £40 (bus fares) = £180+ just to get a few pieces of paper together.

 

I head for Heathrow Airport and the check in desk of Kuwait Airlines, whom I have the misfortune of flying with to Manila.

Sorry, I am told. You need to show you have booked an onward flight out of the Philippines before we can let you board.
But I am applying for a residence visa in Manila – look, here is all the paperwork to prove it, I tell them.
Sorry, rules are rules. Get on the internet and book a ticket to anywhere and then we can let you board.

 

I storm downstairs to what Heathrow laughingly calls an internet café and book a seat to Bangkok for £170 which Kuwait Airways then checks up on by ringing the airline to ensure that I have really done what I said I had. I am allowed to board!

 

I arrive in the Philippines where, surprise surprise, no one is the slightest bit interested in asking me for proof of an onward connection.

 

A few days later I head for the offices of the PRA to apply for my SRRV. This whole application process is going to cost me a one off payment of $1,400 (£880) which I hand over in 100-dollar bills which are all photocopied and the photocopy placed in a newly opened file with my name on it. Twelve photographs are also required – heaven knows what they will do with them all.

 

 

 

I also need to deposit $10,000 into a designated bank account of the PRA which can in the future be used for investment or going towards the purchase of an apartment.

 

I go to a branch of the designated bank around the corner to arrange a transfer but am told I have first to transfer the money from  my UK account into a Philippines dollar account and from there transfer the $10k into the PRA’s account. That way I can show proof of transfer to the PRA in order to get the whole unwieldy process to move forward. Luckily I have someone with me who has a dollar account and a few days later I have the requisite paperwork to take back with me to the PRA to prove transfer of funds into their coffers.

 

But this being the Philippines, where banking is still carried out much as it was 50 years ago in Europe, it is another eight days before the PRA can confirm that they have received the funds. I go back to the PRA once again.

 

Now I am told that I will need to undergo a medical. No problem… that is included in the initial fee. A kindly looking nursing agent accompanies me to the other side of Manila to a hospital where I offer up various samples, get my BP taken, and have a chest X-Ray in a room in which there are notices denouncing the old wives tale that drinking milk can mask any irregularities the X-Ray might show up.

 

 

I return to the PRA and am told that my medical results will be sent to them automatically. Unfortunately, as there are two national holidays this month, the processing of my visa is now going to take slightly longer than normal. Oh dear – what a pity – your tourist visa will therefore expire before we can get our finger out and do the necessary paperwork. Could you please go to the Bureau of Immigration to get a tourist visa extension. (Fume!!!)

 

I head for the other side of town to the BI – a horrid looking building with hundreds of people milling around, not sure of where they need to be going.

 

Finally I am pointed in the right direction, pay P500 (£7+) to the man behind the counter and am told to come back in an hour’s time.

 

 

An hour passes, and I get back my passport with a visa extension.

 

Back again to the PRA to prove to them that I can stay legally in the country until such time as they have got their act together. A photocopy is taken of my new extended visa and I am told to wait three weeks and then to eMail to find out the current status of my application.

 

I wait three weeks; I eMail; I wait two days; and behold, my SRRV is now ready for collection.

 

I return yet again to the PRA where a few more forms are filled out. I am asked to sign here… and here … and here… oh, and here also… and finally I have my new SRRV in my hot and stickies.  I am now officially a Philippines Resident! Yeah!

 

 

A week or two passes and now it is time to get myself a Philippines Driving License. Unfortunately every site on the web which refers to this gives different information. I am in Baguio City where a friend has a friend who works in the Land Transportation office who ‘knows someone’ who will be able to help speed up the process.

 

We turn up in a small windowless office which has two tables, four chairs and two typewriters. I show my UK license. I show my expired Saudi license (to prove that I can drive on the ‘wrong’ side of the road). I show my passport. I show my residents visa.

 

Would I mind undergoing a driving test to get my driving license, I am asked.
No problem … but don’t I need a license to hire a car in order to undergo a test in order to get a license in the first place?
Hmmm; hadn’t thought of that.

They take photocopies of all my paperwork and I am told that someone will phone me up later in the day.

 

Luckily for me, my friend also needs to get a new driving license for herself. I accompany her to the LTO just to view the process.

 

 

A stark warning on the notice board puts me in my place.

 

 

My friend casually asks how difficult it would be for a foreigner who has just got an SRRV to get a new driving license.

No problem at all.
Would he need a driving test?
No. Not needed.

 

Can this be true? I am wheeled in to the head of the bureau to check my credentials. She has obviously never seen a British driving license before – well, not the old style one that I have. She points to the list of vehicles I am allowed to drive.

Which of these vehicles are you allowed to drive?
The ones listed there.
Oh…

 

She points to my date of birth. How old are you?
I do a quick computation, which she does at the same time. Our maths agree!

 

Just go upstairs for a medical and then fill in this form, she tells me.

 

 

Upstairs I have my blood pressure checked and am then asked to remove my glasses and read the letters on the board.
A, T, X, errrr ….

I put my glasses back on and manage to read all the way down to the eighth line. Success!

 

I head downstairs, fill out the form and am asked to wait on one of the benches. One gets the feeling that these people were never born to be bureaucrats. Hey, they have even scattered some pot plants around to brighten up the place!

 

 

I am called to window number 2 where I am asked to sign my name and stand in front of the camera for a mug shot to be taken.
Can you stand back a little? Can you crouch down a little? Perhaps just a little bit more?
There is something of the absurd as I try to crouch down while smiling into a webcam, but it seems to do the trick and I am told to sit down again.

 

I am called to window number 3 where I am again asked to sign my name and stand in front of the camera for a mug shot to be taken. (Did the last bureaucrat forget to press the ‘go’ button? Or did his machine crash? I will never know, though the notices over the windows might give a clue – Filipino nationals and non-nationals)

Can you stand back a little? Can you crouch down a little? Perhaps just a little bit more?
Yet again I crouch down while smiling and again I am asked to sit down.

 

Next I am called to window number 4 where I am relieved of P617 (about £8) and asked to sit again.

And finally – a half hour after the whole process started I am called to window 5 where a brand spanking new Philippines driving license is awaiting my collection.

 

 

I am amazed. I am delighted. Hey, not even in Europe would you get one of these so fast.

 

So in retrospect, I guess I would have to rewind history one more time and warn my daughter never to marry a politician, or a bureaucrat … unless, perhaps, they were working for the Philippine’s Land Transportation Department… though somehow I doubt Genevieve would have paid the slightest bit of notice to me anyway in the event of history having taken a different path!

It's that time of the month...

I don’t believe it! An Emirati immigration officer smiling? No. I must be dreaming. But sure enough – not one, but TWO of them being nice to their ‘customers’ and going out of their way to be helpful.

There comes a time in everyone’s life when the values they have held dear for so long no longer seem to apply and they feel cast out onto a sea of uncertainty as they struggle to come to terms with the new reality. Today was one of those days for me.

Roll back a couple of hours and as the sun rose to proclaim another day, whilst the birds choked on the fumes of Dubai’s Sheikh Zayed Road, BS set out on his first visa run to make him legal for the next month. I had lost my residency visa, being now 'between jobs', and the rules state that visitors – which I had now officially become - can stay in this self-styled paradise on earth for a maximum of 30 days. To stay longer, you cannot. You have to leave the country and then come back in again. And so it is that the well practised visa-run is a part of daily life at the UAE’s borders.

It being a Friday, the roads were pretty empty, save for the last hangers-on from the previous night’s National Day celebrations. (I always wonder what it is these Emiratis think they have to celebrate - but enough of that. Just don’t get me started!)

I drove over to Al Nahda to pick up Alison, who had volunteered to come for the trip; and was mighty glad to have her there, she having performed this little celebration on a number of occasions. I, on the other hand, was a visa-run-virgin.

It being just over 100 clicks to the border with Oman, we took it nice and easy, stopping for a fill up of go-go juice and a coffee in a garage near Al Madam. It was Nescafe; but it was hot and wet – about all you could say for it really.

And so approaching 1030 we arrived at the border post just beyond Hatta. We parked the car and walked over to the somewhat permanent temporary building that made do as an immigration office.

Grab, snarl, plonk, throw back – yes, the immigration officer lived up to the reputation of his colleagues at Dubai Airport as he cancelled the visitors’ visa in my passport. Alison had queued in front of another window with ‘Fines’ scrawled across it. But she too got her passport plonked and we walked back to the car.

Now logic dictated that if we had officially now left the country, as witnessed by our passports, in theory we could simply cross to the other side of the road and reverse the process. No way, advised Alison. We actually have to go into Oman… don’t we? But who would know, quoth I. And being adventurous, we decided to try our luck.

We made a u-turn in the shingle that lay between the two carriageways and parked outside the Enter UAE office before entering to witness the smiling Emirati border guards. Two ladies, decked out in black abayas with henna on their hands.

No, no; one of them told me as she rummaged through my passport for an Omani stamp. You actually have to go into Oman before you can re-enter the UAE! She had obviously been through this routine many times before; but she was so good natured that we couldn’t protest. Being the type who acknowledges the superior wisdom of a fellow human being, I begrudgingly told Alison I should have listened to her in the first place!

We set off down the road. First to the Omani customs post. True to their reputation the Omanis wished us good day, smiled at us, told us not to worry about opening the boot of the car and wished us a pleasant trip. We were given the obligatory piece of paper we would have to get stamped and handed back when we left borderland.

We travelled on for a few kilometres until we got to the Omani immigration post. Not some old Nissan hut as found on the Emirati side. This is a sumptuous immigration palace with ample car parking, advertisements that told us ‘Beauty has an address… in Oman’ and smiling Omani guards who say good morning to us as we enter the building.

As I stood in line for the immigration officer, Alison went to try out the plumbing. But what was this? The price of an Omani visa has just recently increased by over 300 percent! For the privilege of spending about half an hour on Omani soil I was being asked to shell out 200 dirhams – or some US$55. But Mr Immigration officer kept on smiling and I manfully dived into my wallet and handed over the necessary bank notes. Kerching!

Alison came back from the plumbing and we decided that she could get in the coffee whilst I would drive round the block and get the car paperwork sorted out. So, off I drove – another kilometre to the exit sentry who could see a visa-run person a mile off. No need to go any further, he said; just do a u-turn here; which I did. And queued up to buy a car exit pass from another Omani post. 20 dirhams…kerching!

At the next border post I was advised that I needn’t have bought a new exit pass as I had not needed to give up my first pass; I could have used that instead. But have a nice day, he added as an afterthought.

I met up with Alison again, who was doing an excellent job of stopping my coffee from evaporating, and we supped on the precious liquid whilst looking around the immigration palace. Not just a coffee shop, but they even had a Pizza Hut Express outlet there as well.  Enterprising these Omanis!

All good things must come to an end; so with tears in our eyes we set off once again on the 9kms trek to the UAE border post and parked outside the Enter UAE office, there to be greeted once again by one of the smiling ladies. ‘Did you have a nice time in Oman’? I half expected her to ask me as she inspected my passport for what passed as an Omani entry stamp (difficult to find as the ink had nearly dried up on the Omani officer’s pad).

And off we set, handing over the slip of paper to yet another bored border guard as we drove back into the UAE, once again legal.

It still being early in the day, we decided to go back via a circuitous route to Fujairah, stopping for lunch at the Hilton resort; and then on a special detour to show Alison one of my favourite roundabouts - just outside the ‘International Airport’: an eagle that looks like it is high on LSD doing an amazingly good impression of a bunny caught in the headlights of a passing Antonov.

On the way back to Dubai we continued to search for that all illusive cup of decent coffee – and thought we had succeeded when we discovered an outlet called the Mandarin Cafeteria situated right beside a garage.

Look closely at the photo above…. You see it. Yes! Segafredo coffee!

You have to be eagle eyed to notice such things (though not a Fujairah Airport eagle, of course) and we traipsed inside. But alas.  المشكلة مع آلة القهوة  Problem with the coffee machine. Sorry. We have Nescafe though, as if this was the answer to all life’s ills.

We steered clear of the Nescafe and drove on to Alison’s pad, there to sup real coffee from a plunger, accompanied by a Namibian beer as a chaser.

So now I am free to stay in this demi-paradise for another 30 days. Lucky me. But next time I will be flying out from Dubai Airport once again, there to experience – almost without doubt – some of the rudest and most condescending immigration officers I have ever had the misfortune to deal with. Of course, I might strike lucky, but if past experience is anything to go by, I think that is highly unlikely.

The sad tale of trying to get an Indian visa…

The following is an extract from a blog of my friend Sushmita Bose that I wrote for her in April 2009.

Yesterday night at 9.54 pm, I got this email from Brian. Think I told everyone that Brian plans to visit Delhi next week and he's been trying to organise an Indian visa. I thought this was hilarious, so will leave you with this till I get back to Dubai. (He was nice enough not to call me up and complain, and instead sent me a hugely entertaining mail.) And please, please, let's just enjoy this and not detect racist undertones! Also, let's all pray that he DOES get a visa; he's supposed to fly out next Thursday night. Meanwhile, enjoy!

Hiya

Yesterday I set off for the Indian Consulate near the Creek which took me hours to get to in the heavy traffic. Parked in the grounds of the Saudi consulate (thanks Saudis!) and walked round the corner to the Indians who were totally unhelpful. Walked halfway round the building before finding a room at the top of a flight of stairs which said Visas. (Well, actually it didn't. A sign saying visas was pointing the other way, but as it was the only room which looked like it could be used for some kind of service I assumed it was this one.) Aha, thought I (well one does, doesn't one?) Is this the right place for tourist visas, asked I, eyes all a-flutter, broadest smile extended to a guy who was standing there, staring into space - or where he probably assumed space to be. No no. Not here. You must go Pose Offeece. But I've downloaded the forms from the web site. See. I have them here. No no. Pose Offeece. You go!

Well this didn't seem right somehow, so as I wandered yet more corridors I waltzed into one called Attestation and asked there. Tourist visas??? No. Upstairs, says Indian chappie pointing back the way I had come. Upstairs again. Visas?..... No. Pose Offeece. Go yes?

Brian goes yes. And out into the blinking sunshine again, round to the Saudis, retrieve car and wonder what to do next.

Brainwave. I will go to the Pose Offeece. (Now why didn't I think of that before?) I head to Media City where I know there is one. Hello. I'm trying to get a visa to visit India. Can you help? This is a Post Office. Yes I know that, but I was told you could help. No Sir. This is a Post Office. Goodbye. Oh OK. Goodbye.

I jump back into the Brainmobile and head for home. Get on the web. Indian Embassy in Abu Dhabi says residents of Abu Dhabi can get a visa in 36 hours. I fill out new forms with my old Abu Dhabi address (what a wheeze! No one will suspect a thing!) This morning I drive to Abu Dhabi. Park outside the Saudi Embassy and walk round to the Indian Embassy. (What is this relationship Saudis have with Indians?) A Filipino security guard assures me you cannot get tourist visas at the Indian Embassy. I assure him I know better as it says you can on the web site. Oh OK, he says, backing down in the face of my superior knowledge. That way....

I go that way..... No signs saying visa. Not even signs pointing the wrong way. I go to the Attestation office (thinks: what do they do in an attestation office???). I see an Indian version of Bruenhilde (ie you wouldn't want to cross her path on a dark night down an unlit alleyway). Tourist visas??? I ask with my number one you're-the-girl-of-my-dreams smile spread across my face. Ha ha ha. No no. You have to go to Empost, she explains to me. They changed the rules two months ago. Didn't you know? But the web site says I can get a visa in 36 hours here at the Embassy. Ha ha. Tsk Tsk. No no. Empost. You go to Empost. Geddit? Empost. I got it. Empost.... And off I toddle.

I head back home, only stopping for an obligatory Big Whopper at my favourite petrol station, drowning my sorrows in a regular coke with no ice. I get on the internet. Empost. Yes. There it is. Where it is? There it is not a donkey's shake from the Indian Consulate I was at yesterday. (I have now discovered that Empost and Emirates Post are two separate organisations. Strange, since as I found out later, they occupy the same building.)

I drive to Empost, entering the building which says Emirates Post and discover tucked right down the far end a small counter with an Indian skulking behind it. A sign says Incredible India. I take this to be a good omen. Tourist visas for India? I ask. Yessir, he says, brightening up now that someone appears before him who doesn't look like he is going to berate him for the machinations of the Indian Consular service. Please sit over there. I sit over there. 30 seconds later he invites me into the back office. How can I help you? I'd like a tourist visa for India. Yessir. What kind of visa do you want? A tourist one. Yessir. And what kind do you want? (hang on a moment. I'm getting feelings of déja vu.)

How many kinds of tourist visas do you issue? We don't issue them. Hmmm. I think we have a miscommunication problem. Errr, I'm here to apply for a tourist visa, say I proffering the forms to him. Yessir. Ah you want a six month tourist visa. Good. We're back on track. He fills in an electronic form getting the details from my form. Where did you get this form? Off the internet. But it's the wrong form. Oh you got it from the Indian Embassy web site yes? Yes. Oh you should have downloaded it from the Indian Consulate web site. They use a different form in Abu Dhabi. (I checked. They do. It says Abu Dhabi on top instead of Dubai!)

Never mind; my new Indian best pal pulls out another form from his desk drawer and asks me to fill it out for him. I fill it out. He asks for money. I give him money. It will be ready in three working days he says....which means you will have it next Wednesday. (huh? Three working days? Not sure I get the maths there.)

What happens if it is not ready by then? It will be. But what if it's not? It will be. But who can I call if there is a problem? There won't be a problem. Yes, but what if there is? Here's the phone number of the courier. But what if the problem is that the courier company haven't yet received the passport? They will have. I see this conversation going off into the sidings. Perhaps it really will be OK. But I'll be happier when I finally get the passport in my hot and stickies again!

And there was I thinking that US Immigration took a lot of beating!

Wish me luck!

Part 2:

Have you ever tried turning off the alarm clock only to find the ringing doesn’t stop? Happened to me this morning. At 7.30. (Ouch. Didn’t know the day started before 8 ). My phone was going (if I’ve told them once at the office, I’ve told them a thousand times….) But no, it wasn’t the office. That Mr Brain? Sure, says I, struggling to come to terms with there being daylight outside. We have your passport. Oh wow, says I… but it’s only Sunday today. Yes sir, It is Sunday (I can hear this guy wondering down the phone if this Mr Brain is thick or something.) Where are you today? I’ll make sure I’m here at home if you tell me when you are coming.

(Am I dreaming this? But no. The sun is still shining.) We will deliver to your apartment between 2 o’clock and 4 o’clock. Is that alright? It surely is, says I. I’ll be here.

Now, I’ve been trying to work this out ever since I handed my passport in on Wednesday last. I was told my visa application would take three working days … and that I would therefore get it back next Wednesday. Well, I finally figured that out. Three working days would include Thursday; not Friday, it being UAE weekend. Not Saturday nor Sunday (India weekend), so Monday and Tuesday and delivery Wednesday. Voilà. They don’t call me Genius for nothing (no I usually have to pay them first ). But now I was being told I would get my passport back today. Hang on a minute. They didn’t say I would get the visa, just that I would get back my passport. Worry, worry, worry. So much so that I couldn’t get back to sleep. And at 10 to 8 swung out of bed and into the shower. Six hours till delivery. Plenty of time to pop round to the office, dash into the supermarket and still be back with hours to spare. But first I can’t face the day without the obligatory poached eggs on toast; and coffee; and juice (not necessarily in that order) and then I check the eMails, and then find myself doing some research for the next article I’m writing; and before I know it half the morning has gone.

Ding dong. (I’ve never heard my front door bell before – only moved in to the apartment a month ago and no one has come round unexpectedly when I’m in before.) Good morning Sir. Your passport. (Hang on. It’s only 11.30. I wasn’t expecting you till 2. Ah well, no worries. I’m glad to have been in when you called.) Please sign here… and here…. And also here…. My signature becomes ever more illegible as writer’s cramp starts to set in. Thank you sir. Have a nice day. And you too, say I cheerily in the direction of a back that is receding fast towards the lift. I have been given a well-sealed see-through plastic bag. None of your cheap inferior quality plastic bags. No way. This would pass muster in a hospital, sealing some incurable virus from the outside world. Maybe they go to the same plastic bag supplier? Impossible just to rip it open. A pair of scissors is needed. I hack away, wondering what I will find inside.

And there, in my passport, affixed to the middle page of the passport (eschewing 15 empty pages before it and 13 empty pages after it) is my new Indian visa. Bliss. Relief. But what’s this? Not a two-visit visa as requested (and paid for). Not valid for six months as requested (and paid for). I had even told them I wanted to go back to India again in September. Nope. This is a multiple-entry visa valid for only three months. So I guess I will have to go through the entire process once again come the summer (I'll be older and wiser by then, of course!) But hey – I have my visa and I really am thankful for small mercies. So watch out Delhi…. here I come