Thank you, Tracy Ward

Cambridge in February

I had to go to Peterborough the other day. Nothing wrong with Peterborough (it has a lovely cathedral) but there are other places one might prefer to visit whilst living in Cambridgeshire. In this case I needed to go to Stuart House, a government services building where biometrics are done. My biometrics will form part of my request to the Home Office to allow me, I very much hope, to confirm my 'indefinite leave to remain' status in the UK. The lawyer thinks I'm in with a chance. I don't know. I just do what she says.

What I do know is that I have spent an inordinate amount of my life negotiating with immigration services in various countries, including Indonesia, Britain, Canada, and now, again, Britain. I have taken tests and provided fingerprints, been photographed, filled in forms, made spreadsheets, submitted documentation. It's a colossal pain. I understand the rationale; I just don't agree with it. I'm in favor of a border-free world. I know I'm in the minority, but I'm not alone. My thinking is not purely selfish, either; see the Free Migration Project and The Case for Open Borders.  

However. It is, as they say, what it is. If I hope to get my ILR re-instated, I must work within the machine. So off I trotted to Peterborough. Actually I drove; there was a train strike.

I arrived late. I left home later than I intended, because...well, I never know exactly why that happens. Because I got a confusing email just as I was about to depart and had to respond. Because I decided I needed to make tea for my travel mug. Because husband had parked the car far away and I failed to factor in time to find it. Then my phone-slash-GPS fell on the floor while I was driving and I had to pull over on the motorway in order to retrieve it. Basically, I was late because that's the way I roll.  

After three-quarters of an hour I reached Peterborough and jumped off the last roundabout. The clock read 12:29. My appointed time was 12:30. I knew there were car parks in the vicinity of Stuart House and assumed they would be signposted, as indeed they were. However, Peterborough's one-way system and turning signage prevented me from legally entering the one that was nearest my destination. I circled around and decided to risk street parking, which had a one-hour limit. I felt sure I would be at Stuart House longer than that, but needs must. Already three minutes late for my appointment, I flashed my credit card at the pay-and-display machine. It hummed and flickered and said 'declined'. I tried with my debit. Again, same result. I concluded that the thing was broken. I would get photographic proof before abandoning my attempts. Just then a woman rushed up behind me, eager to use the same machine.

"Sorry," I said. "It's not working for me. I'm just going to try this one last time and take a picture in case I have to argue a ticket." 

"Okay," she said dubiously. "My appointment's at half-past."

"Mine too," I said, and we laughed. "Why don't you try?"

Her card was also declined. I was fully ready to give up when she said "Let's use cash," and pulled out a handful of pound coins and 50p pieces. Miraculously, after we took turns pushing various random buttons on the machine, it accepted the silver and spit out a display slip. She handed it to me. "Go on," she said. "Have this one. No point in both of us missing our appointments. Just tell them Tracy Ward is on the way!"

"I'll wait," I said. "I can't leave you here." Not having any coins myself, I offered her a five-pound note to cover the cost of my parking; she said, "Don't be silly." I liked Tracy a lot. Tracy represents so much of what I love about England. Not just the generosity with money but the generosity in sharing experience. Mucking in together. 

Tracy tried again. No luck; the machine refused her coins and demanded a card. "Let's hit cancel," we decided, which reset the process. At last, at last, the thing consented to accept another one pound fifty and provided a second parking slip. At that point Tracy and I discovered that we were bound for different government offices within the same complex. "Good luck!" I shouted as I ran the other way. 

I went to the wrong door and got re-directed to the right one. It was nearly 12:40. Inside the second portal I found a vast, shiny, high-ceilinged lobby and a short, slim, silver-haired man in a jacket and tie, with a badge on a lanyard around his neck, waiting for me. "You're here for the biometrics, right?" he asked. I agreed.

"You've nearly missed your appointment," he scolded. "And we've got a packed schedule. Can you tell me why you're so late?" 

Uh oh. I was in trouble with the government. I thought fast. "Because I'm always late" did not seem like a good response. "It was the train strike," I began. Everyone has sympathy if it's about the train strike. "So I had to drive the car. And then the pay-and-display machine wouldn't accept my card. But a wonderful woman called Tracy Ward turned up with coins..." 

At that point, Mr. Government interrupted me. "Well, we'll try to fit you in. This way." I hoisted my backpack--which contained my laptop, since I had imagined waiting ages for my turn amongst these putative hordes of people--and followed him.

He escorted me to a small lift in which we traveled up two flights, along a length of utterly empty corridor, into a large white room with big windows and five industrial-style desks. At one of these perched a client like myself, there for biometrics, being served by a round red-faced man. I saw no crowds of milling people waiting to be fingerprinted. I saw no one else at all.

I seated myself at "PET05", as Mr. Government's station was labelled, and waited quietly, submissively, abjectly. It seemed to help. He took hold of my passport and my appointment letter and asked me to pose for a photo against a grey background. "Don't lean back," Mr. G warned. "It's only a screen." I stood very upright. "Now put your right fingers here," he motioned. "Like this." In about ten minutes the whole procedure was over. While he scanned my passport, I had time to read a sign taped to the wall, warning me against using my mobile phone 'in this area'. I saw another sign taped to the desk which said, 'Please use your mobile phone to scan this QR code and provide feedback on your appointment.' I decided to obey the first sign. And then I wrote my signature invisibly with an ink-less pen on a small black box and reclaimed my passport. Mr. Government was all smiles as he showed me out. I asked for the toilets, to which he directed me, and where I found to my delight that the sinks had mixer taps. Some things in Britain are definitely getting better (to wit: "Segregation in the UK").

Mixer tap at Stuart House!

I still had another half-hour left on the pay-and-display ticket, and wanted to honour Tracy's generosity, so I stopped for a sandwich and weak coffee in the 'co-working' space on the main floor. I even did a little co-working with my laptop. When I got back outside, I scanned the street for Tracy and her car, to no avail. I hope her appointment, whatever it was for, went well. I hope she explained to her Mr. or Ms. Government that she was late because of a hapless American woman who could not manage the pay-and-display. Hands across the water, etc. (Or maybe not so much, in these Brexity days?)

Co-working with ping-pong table

Snowdrops and aconites

Back home in Cambridge, I took myself for a sunset walk and admired bunches of white snowdrops and yellow aconites tumbling over themselves in the grounds of Newnham College. (In Toronto, meanwhile, a polar vortex meant it was -19C and snowy.) I very much hope that the good folks in the Home Office agree that I can return to this green and pleasant land again and again. For one thing, I need to look for Tracy. I want to buy her a cup of coffee. A good strong one. Tracy is a part of the Britain that needs no improvement.

Moon over Newnham College