Riding in a limo from Heathrow this morning, I had a rather strange feeling of being back home. It was most likely a function of spending a few nights in a hotel coupled with anticipation of getting to sleep in my own – or, at least, familiar and warm, – bed. But it was also a clear symptom of an established residence – home is what you come back to after having been away…
The IRIS thing did not work. I stepped into a booth, aligned my eyes with positional dots on the screen, heard the camera shutter activate… and was shown a “do-not-go” sign. After shamefully exiting the booth through the entry door, I was advised by a security guy that the system was apparently not working today. He ushered me into the nearby special medical conditions line, and the girl at the counter spent maybe 15 seconds checking my passport. So the end result was clearly positive – no waiting in the queue at all…
And in the mail today, Natasha’s provisional driver license arrived. After all the sinister warnings of three weeks or five weeks, all it took was ten calendar days. I have to concede again that as much as I find English bureaucracy ridiculous, it occasionally amazes me with its efficiency.
Need to crash. Jet lag…