The call of the wales

Its been a fairly bureaucratic week for this weary traveller, but it does give me the chance to share with you a couple of what I've learned to be, some helpful rules for travelling.

Before I left, much was made of the process of getting a National Insurance Number, tales of horror were told to me of arduous waits and Tolkien like journeys required to get one of these mythic creatures, so by the time I got here I was dreading it really. National Insurance numbers by the way are much like Australian tax file numbers or American social security numbers, they mean that I don't get charged emergency tax which is about 40% of your salary and mean that I can get access to the National Health Service and Benefits. Wanna know how long it took me to get a national insurance number?
Day one, I called them, feeling of ominous dread having built in the pit of my stomach after endless tales of revenue and customs, fuelled by the industry that has sprung up of companies who will go to the trouble of organising an appointment for you for an easy $75 AUD/ Their sales pitch is along the lines of, its so bad you should leave it to the professionals. They attach themselves to recruitment companies, a few of which I was in contact with before I left. Oh it'll take ages they said, months. Yeah I'll take my chances I said filled which what I thought at the time might be regrettable bravado. Ages, ages, ages rung in my ear in echoing flashback as I sat on the phone to the National Insurance Number people their hold music was basically just info being read out in English and Welsh. Welsh: its a beautiful language occasionally interrupted by the sound of the speaker coughing up a furball. I was in for the long haul on this phone call or so I thought, I'd even started a game of Mahjong on Bruce in expectation when all of a sudden, Hello? I was interrupted by someone answering my call by Jove. “Um, I'd like to make an appointment to get a National Insurance Number please”. “Sure, what's your name?” I told the lovely operator along with a few other bits of information and then she said something quite shocking. She said “No problem, your appointment is tomorrow at 10:30am at the Jobcenter in Tooting” Tomorrow? Really? Not five years from tomorrow if I line up now? Ok then, I say and take down my reference number, pleasantly surprised. Maybe the horror doesn't start until the interview I thought, I mean everyone had gone on about it so much there had to be some kind of horror. I envisioned waiting in the job centre for hours on end, the perfect time to continue my reading of Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere (fantastic book by the way) I'd bring water just in case, one needs to be hydrated.
I got myself up the next day, made my way on that clear, crisp morning through what remained of the snow and caught the train into London Bridge before catching the tube to Tooting Bec. I'm liking catching the tube, where everything is, is still mostly a mystery to me but I like the vague feeling of satisfaction I get when I manage to successfully change from one tube line to the other, sad I know but I take what I can get. Had a bit of a wander around Tooting because I was both incredibly early and considering living around that way for a bit, but by about 10am it was just too cold to be outside anymore. So I retreated into the Jobcenter to be greeted helpfully by a lady who asked me for my reference number, “I'm really early” I apologised. “No problems” she said and took my details. I sat down and unwrapped myself of coat, scarf and these brilliant angora gauntlets I got that are surprisingly warmer than gloves, and settled in with Neil. I made it through about half a page before someone called my name. Gathered up my stuff and made my way over to the desk of the lovely Johanna, she's moving to Glasgow, will be there now in fact, her husband got a new job up there and she's a little worried about how she'll cope with the weather. You know how I know this? Coz after the 5 mins it took to fill in my application we had to make small talk for another 5 while her supervisor looked it over then bang, approved. “It'll take about 3 to 4 weeks for the number to come in the post then another couple of days after that for your card to arrive” Ah I thought, that's the waiting bit but I was still out of there before my official appointment time. Spent the rest of the day wandering around south bank and London Bridge. Three to four weeks, that's ok, I thought it would be much worse. The next day was spent cooking a stew, roasting some chestnuts, waiting for snow and helping Katie organise her Ikea furniture which had just been delivered. Day after that consisted of more job applications and waiting for the microwave that Katie ordered to be delivered and then on the third day, a letter arrived. Guess what it was. That's right, from calling to getting the number in my hot little hand, 5 days. And to think I was almost willing to part with $75. Rule one of travelling: Always go with both an open mind and an open ear, never only one of those things. Sometimes things work out better than expected.

A few weeks back I was out at Heathrow and needing to make my way back into the city. There are a few ways of doing this, either catching the tube and changing a few times, catching a bus or catching the Heathrow express or connect services which will charge you anywhere between 8 and 16 pounds. I catch the bus, it gets me to Victoria Station which is where I needed to be so I could head off to see a flat share that I was considering in Battersea. Off I go to the automated ticket machine and buy a ticket on the next coach, which according to the machine isn't for another hour and a bit. Great I thought, but I had heaps of time, was even planning on killing some time by taking a look at the Saatchi gallery before my appointment, so I sat down to read. About 20 mins later an announcement came over the tannoy, the 1pm service to Victoria is now departing from bay 6. There's a stampede to bay 6 which I join, cool, more gallery time I thought. Normally there is a bus driver at the door who will check your ticket but I couldn't see them and the bus was filling up ,so I thought bugger it I'm getting on. Settle myself in and the driver gets on and doesn't really make a proper announcement which is odd, normally they say where you're going. All she says is “Sorry its a bit cold at the moment. but it should warm up a bit when we get on the motorway” Motorway? We don't usually take the motorway to get into London from here I think, but hey I don't know everything, maybe there is road works or something and they're going a different way. One of the things I love about the road signs here is when you are out on the motorway they don't just give you place names and distances, in bold letters they give you direction. TO THE WEST they exclaim as if flinging their little road signy arms wide with joy. West? I think, but London isn't west of here. I start to get a sinking feeling. About 30 mins into the journey it was clear to me that we were not heading into London, in fact we were heading away from it with increasing speed. I remained calm, giggled at myself a bit and then seriously considered staying on the bus. Oooohhhh mystery bus tour a voice inside me said. No, you have to go see that place in battersea, its right by the river and the rent is cheap said another less fun voice. Awww whined the first voice, but mystery bus tour! No, were getting off at the next stop. Less fun voice sucks. So I ended up in Reading and Macgyver like whipped out Bruce my trusty laptop used his dongle (oh er) to connect to the internet while balanced on a rubbish bin and booked myself a ticket back to London from the middle of nowhere in Reading about 3 mins before the bus back to London arrived. All the while with my fun voice whining “You shoulda stayed on the bus, it was going to Pembroke”. Made it back to Victoria in plenty of time to head out to Battersea and saw the potential flatshare. It sucked. Actually it both sucked and blowed, its the kind of place you envision dying alone, in fact that maybe all that flat could possibly the used for. “Yeah I'll get back to you” I said to the russian girl who showed me round the flat. Shoulda stayed on the bus. Rule number 2, sometimes you should ride out the unexpected, there can be such a thing as good mistakes.
Now all I have is the slightly embarrassing tale of how I almost ended up in Wales.