It's official; I'm back online. I wrote a really long post (almost 10,000 words) that details everything that's been happening over the past month but I really don't expect anyone will read the whole thing.
I need one of these people (thanks to Huw for the link) to dress up as UK Immigration.
All I want to do is obey the law, and they're making it difficult for me.
The child bride and I came here in July on a tourist visa.
Because the U.S. bought Western Europe loyalty with the Marshall Plan, all Yankee scum are allowed to come to the UK on nothing more than a passport. We are allowed to stay for six months at a time, but we are not allowed to work. In order to do that, one has to have a proper visa, which, you may remember, the child bride and I went to a great deal of trouble to obtain.
But, as I say, we came here on just our passports. The proper visas could not be used until 1 August. Now that the date has passed, the proper visas must be validated, which basically means that we need to leave the country and come back.
And that's how the child bride and I ended up in Rosslare, Ireland, last night. We took a ferry over from Wales and stayed in a hotel in what turns out to be a charming little port village.
"Oh, isn't this all wonderful, taking the train across Wales and the ferry to Ireland? It's all so much more pleasant than sitting in a plane, even if it does take 10 times as long" we were saying to ourselves.
And then we arrived back in Fishguard, Wales, this morning to discover that there is no immigration officer posted there. None.
I suppose that's good news for my friends in Ireland, should they ever kill someone -- just take the Rosslare-to-Fishguard ferry and you'll escape the country undetected.
But for us, the whole reason we travelled seven hours to Ireland was a bust. And actually, things are now just a bit worse. Because, while Fishguard doesn't have an immigration officer, Rosslare does. So, our passports were stamped in Ireland. Technically, then, we left the UK and have now returned without proper clearance to do so. I'm pretty sure that means we are now here illegally. I am an illegal immigrant.
I am also sick. I blame Eisteddfod, where I spent several hours Saturday just sort of wandering around in the sun. On my Welsh blog I mentioned that I was somewhat disappointed by what I have come to understand is the apex of Welsh culture. I'm hoping that my opinion of the event will change when I go back on Thursday.
A discussion has been going on as to how I can better appreciate the event. One person suggested I needed to visit the beer tent. Of course I went to the beer tent! Name an event I would go to where I'm not drinking beer. I had keyed in on the Guinness area within two minutes of my setting foot on the maes.
But it seems the general consensus is that the reason I didn't think it was great is because I'm not Welsh.
As Rhys pointed out the other day, I was on Welsh-language television last week. The story about me shows up at 17:40, after an inexplicable and insufferable piece about the release of "Miami Vice." I am still trying to figure out the tenuous Welsh link on that one.
I will warn you that even if you can't understand Welsh, the interview with me is painful to watch.
The correct way to write "internet," according to both the Associated Press and Blogger's spellchecker, is "Internet." I have decided this is ridiculous. Why should "internet" be a proper noun?
I came up with a new phrase yesterday: "This is cocksuckery."