Yesterday, I march into Boss’s room and ask for a day off because “I-need-to-go-to-immigration-to-apply-to-be-a-pr-of-this-wonderful-country-so-that-the-gahmen-will-let-me-buy-a-hdb-flat.”
He thought about it. “Don’t they only let 35 yr old single people buy flats? You are what, 16 still, right? Or are you *gulp* thinking of traipsing down the aisle next week??”
I assured him (in my best lawyerly tone) that I have no such intention in case he starts thinking I’m planning to get preggy next and go on 3 months maternity leaving him to do all the work himself. Convinced that I will commit no such heinous acts, he gave me the day off.
So today, I woke up at 7 so that I could be at Immigration by 8, which is their opening time. Figuring I would be the first few, I took my time waltzing towards the building from the carpark … except I ended up having to waltz 270 degree around the building to get to the end of the queue to get INTO the building. That’s right, at frigging 7.55am, there are at least 200 people waiting in queue outside. How can I forget what my Bro told me the other day – that one of his friends went there at 6am and found 30 people ahead of him in the queue already.
Desperate migrants, and I am one of them.
Once I got my queue number inside, it wasn’t so bad. The aircon and computerized queue system are working (bless them!) and there were ample seats for us DMs (Desperate Migrants). This time I came fully prepared with a Tom Holt book, another chick lit book as backup, a blackberry with full bar battery, a working mobile phone and most importantly, a determination of steel to conquer this waiting game.
Two hours later, my number flashed across the digital board. I scurried to my designated counter, all prepared to make my case heard. The case being that I am a desired candidate for this country.
The Immigration lady looked a bit shocked when I greeted her with a beaming smile and hello, how are you (I figure I must be one of the first DMs to do so) I proceeded to submit all the requisite documents, in the correct number of photocopies, as stated in the “Explanatory Notes to Form 4A: Guidelines for PR Application" extracted from the Immigration’s website. When she asked to see the originals, I promptly produce them from a clear folder where everything is systematically filed. In fact, I saw her nod (every so slightly) in approval as she tore off the yellow post-it notes where I have marked each document’s name, date and number of copies.
The point I am trying to prove is, I can wait in queue and I can follow guidelines. Isn’t that the real test here? Hehe!
Immigration Lady said that they will notify me by post if I qualify. I manage to squeeze a smile from her frosty face when I expressed my sincere thanks for the short but pleasant 5 minutes session we had. This is a trick I learnt from Dailytoe – kill them with kindness.
The time reads 10.15am and I have the rest of the day to myself – WOOT!
What do I always want to do on a free (not a public holiday) weekday? Three things:
1. Sit and stone in Starbucks
2. Get some sun (with no screaming kids around)
3. See some animals (real ones, not those in the office)
So I went to Starbucks and had a croissant, which is my holiday food. Next I drove to East Coast Park and cycled from one end to the other, then back to the other end for 2 hours- without sunblock.
So now at 3.45pm, I am sitting at home nursing a sun burnt back, blogging and talking to The German on MSN at the same time.
Frou: I am too hot to go to the zoo now!
The German: See, our office skin is useless in the midday sun. Why don’t you go anyway and try those nice new park things - you know bridges where you can sit down and have ice cream.
Frou: Go to the zoo and sit on a bridge???!! The monkeys will laugh at me! I can’t even walk straight. I think my butt has split. How do cyclists do this? How did Lance Armstrong finish Tour De France in one piece?
The German: Well, I guess he don't feel anything anymore. Everything dead around there.
And I end this post with that depressing thought…..
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