my hero: a post office clerk

an accidentally UK-focused edition

Hello dear readers. Today I would like to tell you a little story, but before I do I have one bit of nonsense for you. It wouldn’t be a hot mushrooms, no, it wouldn’t be a piece of my writing, without a bit of nonsense.

the nonsense:

I’m obsessed with trying to find Boris Johnson’s bachelor’s thesis. If I could access the libraries at Oxford I’m sure there’s a copy catalogued away somewhere. There’s a physical copy of my master’s thesis at Manchester Metropolitan. There’s a physical copy of my uncle Chris’ master’s thesis in my grandmother’s library. Do you reckon Oxford would give me a day pass or something, if I told them how desperate I am to find and read Boris’ thesis? I hope so because after I’m done with that I need to read David Cameron’s bachelor’s thesis. You see, I’m actually obsessed with finding an actual conservative point of view. Not the modern, reactionary “conservatism”. I’m not interested in debating whether I have the right to bodily autonomy or not, whether trans people should exist or not. I believe there has to be a conservative position on politics and society beyond rejecting any progress and wanting to murder anyone different. And, for whatever reason, I believe I might find those positions in Boris and David’s theses. So, if anyone reading this can grant me access to Oxford’s archives, please, ego sum tibi ego.¹

the story:

Living as an immigrant, nomad if you’re feeling groovy, is not glamourous. Adventurous, exciting, infuriating, humbling. It’s those things and too many other things to write about here. I want to talk about the most unglamorous, the least sexy, and most anxious part of immigrant life: visas!

I’ve had to stand in line from 5:00 am; I’ve had to travel to embassies in different countries to submit paperwork for a strange bureaucratic performance; I’ve had to get a temporary exit and re-entry visa whilst waiting for an official visa decision. And those are just the bits that looked nice to me while I typed this.

This story is about the visa process in the UK. Sexy, right? It won’t be the same now, because this was when the UK was in the EU and I was applying for an EU family member visa.² The process involved: a 90-page form to fill, sending my passport and my husband’s EU ID card through the mail, and paying the application fee by purchasing some kind of certificate from the post office which ended up being just a fancy receipt. In the Czech Republic I had to buy special stamps to apply for my visas. They looked exactly like a lickable postage stamp, but were treated with grave solemnity by the foreign police officials.

Filling in even a measly one-page form makes my brain do the no signal TV snow, so you can imagine the torture of a 90-page form. And after dragging myself through all 90 pages I had to send the application, with that special receipt certificate, and my actual passport, through the Royal Mail. If you’ve never been passport-less in a foreign country, let me tell you it is deeply unsettling.

So, I took my little novella of an application to the post office to buy that strange certificate and a good quality envelope. I picked out the envelope and was relieved when the cashier understood what certificate I needed when I asked for it by name. I made my way to the sticky little counter off to the side and I packed the application, supporting documents, photos, my husband’s EU identification card, my precious passport, and that fucking certificate into the envelope. Going over my handwritten checklist about ten times before sealing the envelope extra securely. And I got back in line to send it all, insured and tracked, to some random Home Office address.

There were two clerks available, and I happened to get the same one who had sold me the certificate. We smiled awkwardly at each other and he began printing and placing the postage stamps. He had the envelope, the one with my passport and Tom’s ID inside, in his hand and was about to tell me the postage price when he stopped. He shifted on his feet and asked me if this was my residence visa application.

How clever of him, I thought, and I said that yes, it was. He shifted again and told me that I had actually purchased the wrong certificate for a residency visa application. I was equally shocked and grateful that he said something. How easy would it have been for him to have the inkling something was off and just ignore it to make his day smoother! This must have been written across my face, because he completely took over the transaction. He had me pay for the postage and then he refunded the original mysterious certificate and had me buy the correct one, all while skilfully reopening the envelope to swap them.

I must have told him thank you about fifty times in three minutes. When the envelope was resealed and in the proper bin I felt strange about simply walking away.  Like I should do something more than just say thank you for the fifty-first time. Which is exactly what I did.

As I walked home in a daze I realised that he truly saved my life. Even when the UK was still an EU member the Home Office was notorious for ordering deportations based on nothing more than a whisper of an error. I couldn’t imagine the cost of the time and the insanity of bureaucracy that would have been my life for the next few years had I sent my flawless application with the wrong receipt.

I still think about that post office man, often, obviously. My entire nomadic adult life has relied on luck, rather too much for my nerves sometimes. And I count this man’s thoughtfulness as one of the most fortunate moments of my life.

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Thanks for reading this week’s hot mushrooms. I hope you liked my little story! I’m finally pushing myself to write about my own life in a storyteller fashion. If you liked this post please share it. See you next week.

1. I am at your service.

2. Another performance because they can’t really say “no” because I’m married to an EU citizen. One which I’m honestly tired of performing over and over. Why must I do this in every country — we’ve only ever lived in EU countries — given the fact they will never deny me, because they literally can't? Any EU Members of Parliament reading this: how about a compromise? I’ll still pay the fee in each country, but I don’t have to do the dance.