Every year I suffer a little peak of stress when my visa renewal comes around. 90% of this is caused by the knowledge I will have to descend into the bowels of hell that is the immigration office and queue, often with people who have clearly not washed for a while, for several hours. And 8% is caused by the fear that immigration might say “no”, and I will have to leave this fine country which I am so lucky to call my home. And 2% is rounding errors.
Usually, I resolve the queuing issue by being outside immigration at least half an hour before they open. I’d rather 30 minutes in the open air, than a couple of hours in the fetid interior, sat next to Boris in a Chang T-shirt who is systematically extracting black stuff from between his toes. But this morning I was forced to wait until the British Council opened their office at 0900 (0904 actually), so that I could collect the expensive piece of paper I ordered yesterday.
So it was almost half past nine before I made my way into immigration and the man behind the counter gave me number 666. “Ah, the number of the beast!”, I bantered. He gave me one of those looks.
I sat down and perused the flashing numbers board, the closest number I could find was 578; it was going to be a long wait. Luckily I had with me the latest book by Richard Dawkins, with a healthy 400+ pages to pass the time. But no sooner had I started absorbing why birds are more likely than insects to fertilise red flowers, than 666 was called and I was at the desk of the man whose face I have seen every year for five years. He perused the mound of paperwork I offered, relieved me of 1,900 baht; and I was then sent to the next chair where the supervisor did another check of my submission and asked me the same question she does every year, “do you own or rent?” This year I was ready with my condo book which I waved in her general direction and before I knew it I was out in the street with a numbered card which I take back on Thursday to collect my passport. Total time, about twenty minutes.
So, there we are, permission to stay. Personally I am most relieved, and I think Wigandays.com would be considerably less entertaining, for me anyway.
Comments 🔗
2010-02-23| Qon sayswtf is ‘wigan’?
2010-02-23| Jock saysF’ me Spike … I never even knew it was Wigan that you sprouted from.
Qon .. they have a football team but the town is most famous for this
http://www.wigan-casino.co.uk/
… not, I hasten to add a casino as in gambling, but a dance hall where a pecular style of dance ‘Northern Soul’ was born in the 70’s.
I had a girlfriend who would regularly get on a bus on a Friday afternoon and return on a Monday lunchtime … just to dance Northern Soul at the Wigan Casino ….
.. travelling time 10 hours each way …
.. then again … maybe it was me …
2010-02-23| Pete saysThey have a pier there as well, or is there just a road to it?
2010-02-24| Antz saysWell, that explains everything…. some people are just born on the “wrong side”…..
2010-02-24| Spike saysQon, it’s like anywhere in Ohio, except in England. The rest of you, I am from Newcastle. I just have a fear that I might end my days in somewhere like Wigan.
2010-02-24| Jock saysJudging by this link I just found Wigan would be a happier hunting ground than Aberdeen (for anyone that’s English) that is …
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/scotland/north_east/8533791.stm
So here we go, here we go, ABE 2010
2010-02-24| Billy saysWouldn’t mind one myself Jock, but for me the TLA would have to mean Anywhere But Europe (especially Newcastle)…..
2010-02-26| Spike saysI want one of those T-shirts.