With my father-in-law safely installed in a home for retired Vikings, the contents of the farm are being auctioned off. If you have a krona or two to spare (exchange rate 10.44 to the pound, according to the Post Office a fortnight ago) and are so inclined, the goods are available to view.
Some particular items to draw your attention to:
How much do I have to pay for this not to be delivered to my front door?
Handy for the shopping
Those were the days
Want!
Can I just say that if all UK air traffic has to be grounded due to the presence of a vast cloud of volcanic ash in the skies above us, the least it could do would be to look exciting? You’d think? Something vaguely glowy, looming and pyroclastic, maybe? Huh?
However, Best Beloved did recently spend 6 days in Sweden and I’m very glad the volcano waited to blow until she was back.
In completely unrelated news, but it saves me doing a separate post: from the Department of How Do You Solve A Problem Like the 5-Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique, what the world needs more of is kung fu nuns. Oh, yeah.
Long-term readers may remember I had a five-day holiday in New York with Bonusbarn back in 2008, after which he flew home and I flew on to Denver. I had heard Things of US Immigration and I was acutely aware I would be travelling with a minor (albeit a 16-year-old minor, legal for most purposes) with whom I had no legal or blood connection. We went in on the visa waiver programme and I took with me a letter signed by his mother, saying he was travelling with me with her permission, and I was married to her, and giving precise itinerary of places, times, dates and flights plus her contact details for home and work. We tried to get it notarised but left it too late so we made do with a witnessed signature.
And I never even needed to take it out of its envelope. The Immigration guy at JFK looked at us together and said, “family?” I didn’t want to make a technically incorrect statement on the record so I stated, “stepfather and stepson.” He looked at me and said again, in the kind of voice that positively sheds hints, “family?”
“Family,” I agreed. And lo, we were in.
All comes to mind because within the space of the last month I’ve read three very harrowing tales from the US border, one by someone actually known to me, none with happy endings. The utterly lovely Cheryl Morgan, caught in a perfect bureaucratic storm that means she will probably never be able to return there; SF writer Peter Watts, who actually managed to fall foul of border guards whilst leavingthe country [and the result]; and a Kiwi lady I’ve not heard of before, whose tale linked from Cheryl’s blog sparked off this train of thought.
No big conclusions to draw: just the reflection that we might have been much luckier than I realised.