Preparations for the children’s international globe-trotting adventures are coming along with exciting speed.
The airline has cancelled all of their flights and replaced them with something far less convenient, which they are refusing to reconsider despite several prolonged visits to their telephone-music-on-hold service.
Also causing some difficulties has been the collection of tiresome new international Health regulations, the sort that won’t let you go somewhere unless you can provide evidence that you have been injected with anti bat-flu serum.
Oliver has dutifully presented his arm for this dubiously useful procedure, twice. He has already had bat flu, also twice, but cost-free immunity does not count when it comes to paperwork, and so he has been obliged to submit.
It turned out that injected immunity did not count either, because the NHS App refused to acknowledge him at all.
In consequence of this minor technical peculiarity, we spent ages and ages on the telephone to NHS England, who have an employment inclusivity policy which seems to insist that they don’t discriminate against non-English speakers and really bored indifferent people.
The problem, which we finally worked out during a call to the GP surgery (Your call is important to us. You are number Nine in the queue. The other eight are telling us their life history and asking us to help them fill in their car insurance claim forms. Do not hang up. We will be open again in the morning.) turned out to be that Oliver is in fact a Scottish resident, not English at all, because he is registered for everything at school.
He was vaccinated here in England.
NHS Scotland does not talk to NHS England at all, presumably in retribution for Culloden.
Today we trailed into Kendal to visit the vaccine centre, who initially refused to do anything much about it, and told us that we would be obliged make an appointment in three weeks time to trail down the motorway into Lancaster and visit their administration office there.
After a little while they realised that I had got no intention of getting up from the chair on the other side of the desk and sorted it out.
His papers are now in order.
After that we went to the orthodontist. This has also become hideously complicated because he is supposed to have appointments every six weeks. In six weeks from today he will be in Canada, and six weeks after that in Scotland, and then in Italy, and then Scotland again.
I had put all of these details in an apologetic email to the secretary, with my diary at my side and my tongue sticking out as I counted weeks and visits, and hunted down dates on which he might possibly be resident in the Lake District.
By the time we got there today she had worked it all out and helpfully booked him in advance for all of the available dates, just to make sure.
Oliver’s diary is now filled practically until Christmas. He is booked on to lots of trains and aeroplanes. He has appropriately-sized bags, his tickets stored in his telephone, and he has formal Government permission.
I have had enough of arranging exciting travelling administration, most especially since I am unlikely to be travelling further than Blackpool for the foreseeable future.
Actually that is not truly true. I am going to go to Cambridge very soon. Oxford told me that they don’t have any places left. They suggested that I go next year instead, but Cambridge is the bird in my hand, so Cambridge it will be. I am going to go down there in a very few weeks, to slope about and meet some other students and decide whether or not I will need a duffle coat.
In between stabbing at buttons on the telephone I made some chocolate cakes and started making soap, which became too onerous so I am going to leave it until tomorrow.
Lucy goes away tomorrow, and so we are not going to work and we are going to have a takeaway for dinner tonight.
I am going to go and do that.
