I write this post mournfully, aware that today I lost 7 hours of my life - and I'll never get that time back.
The day started with me feeling purposeful - bounding out of bed (yes, I'm one of those annoyingly cheerful 'morning people'), and getting ready for a day of appointments. First, more identity verification (my 2 passports seem to create at least as many problems as they solve), and then - oh joy! - onto the Taxation Office to applice for my TFN (Tax File Number - the Australian equivalent of a National Insurance number).
These first two appointments went well. Very well. Suspiciously well. The kind of well that makes you know that it's all downhill from this point in. Alas. So it was.
My next interview was with Medicare, and clutching my folder of documents, proof of identity, and suicide pills (for if it all got too desperate), I waited. Eventually, served by a woman who'd make Mr Blobby look chatty, articulate and effulgent (Mr Blobby never speaks. That is the irony), I got my application lodged, and could leave - blinking at the daylight, and the un-depressed looking passers-by. I had to remind myself that these lucky people had not, as I had, spent their day in the kind of place that makes mixing sleeping tablets with operating heavy machinery seem like an excellent option. Indeed, if I could put it more strongly - they had not spent their day somewhere that, should Australia ever need an enema, would be the ideal location for it to be inserted. (Let me summarise: the bumhole of Oz).
Still, this all left me with just one trauma / appointment to go. The RTA (Road Traffic Authority), for my New South Wales driving licence, and that sense of freedom you can only get on the open road. Unfortunately for me, however, I was not yet out on the open road, but in a small, grey, smelly room. And as I'd got lost en-route (my own fault really, I decided that I could read a map rather than rely on my iPhone to direct me. What a mistake), I was contributing to the slightly sweaty, un-air conditioned atmosphere. Oh dear. Not my finest moment.
Still, at least I could comfort myself that the average age-group there was 60+, so I was only scaring off further unsuitable Antipodean suitors / weirdos rather than repelling potential hotties. The group there wouldn't even rate as tepidies. (Get it? Hotties... tepidies... temperature-based humour...?)
Ok, moving on.
People, I don't want to dwell on this (although I already have) - but it seems that even 12,000 miles from home, bureaucracy is still a nightmare. The only plus sides I can see are that 1) I am almost a fully-registered Aussie now, and 2) I survived. I'm a shaking, quivering, trembling mess, but I survived. I may be about to have a minor breakdown - especially every time I look at my driving licence photo - which makes me look like an angry transsexual. And much as I have nothing against transsexuals, angry or not, that is not the look I cultivate - but I survived.
Hopefully this means that I have staying power. That I'm over the metaphorical 'hump' (where did that expression originate?). So, bring it on, Sydney. I'm ready. But I don't think you're ready. No, I don't think you're ready for this jelly...
Hmm. It seems that the mental breakdown's gone further than I'd thought.Time for some post-traumatic stress recovery before I start quoting more Destiny's Child (oh dear, again).
More adventures to come soon.
Love,
Belle x
The day started with me feeling purposeful - bounding out of bed (yes, I'm one of those annoyingly cheerful 'morning people'), and getting ready for a day of appointments. First, more identity verification (my 2 passports seem to create at least as many problems as they solve), and then - oh joy! - onto the Taxation Office to applice for my TFN (Tax File Number - the Australian equivalent of a National Insurance number).
These first two appointments went well. Very well. Suspiciously well. The kind of well that makes you know that it's all downhill from this point in. Alas. So it was.
My next interview was with Medicare, and clutching my folder of documents, proof of identity, and suicide pills (for if it all got too desperate), I waited. Eventually, served by a woman who'd make Mr Blobby look chatty, articulate and effulgent (Mr Blobby never speaks. That is the irony), I got my application lodged, and could leave - blinking at the daylight, and the un-depressed looking passers-by. I had to remind myself that these lucky people had not, as I had, spent their day in the kind of place that makes mixing sleeping tablets with operating heavy machinery seem like an excellent option. Indeed, if I could put it more strongly - they had not spent their day somewhere that, should Australia ever need an enema, would be the ideal location for it to be inserted. (Let me summarise: the bumhole of Oz).
Still, this all left me with just one trauma / appointment to go. The RTA (Road Traffic Authority), for my New South Wales driving licence, and that sense of freedom you can only get on the open road. Unfortunately for me, however, I was not yet out on the open road, but in a small, grey, smelly room. And as I'd got lost en-route (my own fault really, I decided that I could read a map rather than rely on my iPhone to direct me. What a mistake), I was contributing to the slightly sweaty, un-air conditioned atmosphere. Oh dear. Not my finest moment.
Still, at least I could comfort myself that the average age-group there was 60+, so I was only scaring off further unsuitable Antipodean suitors / weirdos rather than repelling potential hotties. The group there wouldn't even rate as tepidies. (Get it? Hotties... tepidies... temperature-based humour...?)
Ok, moving on.
People, I don't want to dwell on this (although I already have) - but it seems that even 12,000 miles from home, bureaucracy is still a nightmare. The only plus sides I can see are that 1) I am almost a fully-registered Aussie now, and 2) I survived. I'm a shaking, quivering, trembling mess, but I survived. I may be about to have a minor breakdown - especially every time I look at my driving licence photo - which makes me look like an angry transsexual. And much as I have nothing against transsexuals, angry or not, that is not the look I cultivate - but I survived.
Hopefully this means that I have staying power. That I'm over the metaphorical 'hump' (where did that expression originate?). So, bring it on, Sydney. I'm ready. But I don't think you're ready. No, I don't think you're ready for this jelly...
Hmm. It seems that the mental breakdown's gone further than I'd thought.Time for some post-traumatic stress recovery before I start quoting more Destiny's Child (oh dear, again).
More adventures to come soon.
Love,
Belle x
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