Oh go on then

Of all the low down, dirty, pathetic things to do...the Home Office is in the process of changing the application process and the regulations governing visas. They appear to be unable to pass their own requirements for understanding of English, however, given that in order to apply for further Leave to Remain in the UK, applicants will have to return to their home country. Experts are suggesting that the glut of applications this is going to cause will take 4-5 months to clear. Given that most of the people affected will be switching from the restrictive Working Holiday Visa to the more open Highly Skilled Migrant visa, this is likely to mean a whole lot of antipodeans evacuating the UK in a hurry, or working illegally. I've taken the evacuate the country route myself, and am currently in the process of getting myself set up in Galway for at least part of th duration.

It was a bit of an adventure heading to Galway last week. Turns out that Ryanair exaggerate a little when they say that there's a regular bus service that will get you from Knock Airport to Galway. Turns out that there's one bus a day that does that direct from the airport; the alternative is a 15 minute shuttle bus ride in the wrong direction to a little town called Charlestown where, every 4 hours or so, there's a bus through to Galway. Except last Tuesday, the shuttle bus wasn't running and the poor women who staffed the information booth didn't know about that. Two hours and a missed Charlestown-Galway connection later, I was dropped by a taxi at the bus stop to wait in the freezing cold. Naturally, I looked for another alternative when I found that the wait was going to be around 3 hours. Being Ireland, I had a choice of pubs close at hand and somehow found myself in one of the cliched Irish pubs, complete with a collection of old men spinning yarns in indecipherable accents, and an open fire in the corner.

The old gents did their best to keep me entertained although, I have to admit, I think my entertainment was mostly incidental to their own teasing of each other. These are men who clearly spend most of their time propping up a bar and their banter is well practiced, from the man who dubbed his friend Nanky Doodle when it came out that the friend had spent some time in 'The States', to the man who distanced himself from them with the odd disapproving as he read his paper and drank his politehalf pint before leaving. They wouldn't let me sit with an empty glass, topping up my Coke at regular intervals as I disappeared to the ladies (too much Coke will do that...but somehow the glass had always miraculously re-filled itself when I got back).

The bus finally came, announced by the man who'd taken up station by the window as look out for me, only to be full. Luckily, there was another following it. Having left my London flat at 7am, I finally made it to my Galway hostel a around 5:30pm. Who knew it would be difficult?

There ar many good things about Galway. It's a fun place - although chaotic might be a better description of it for the past week, with Rag Week in full swing at the local university, and drunken students pretending to be raising money for charity scattered throughout the town in terrifying arrays of minimalist clothing given the cold. I'm not sure how the never had frostbite, but can only put it down to the huge amount of alcohol they consumed in the course of a night. Next weekend promises to be just as crazy as Tedfest rolls into town - and out again, heading for the island of Inis Mor. I'm a little disappointed though. I've only just found out about it, and look like I'll be missing out on the official aspects of the celebration of all things Father Ted. For anybody who never saw Dermott Morgan and Ardal O'Hanlon in action, Father Ted was – and I'm sorry for the pun here – an irreverant take on the lives of 3 priests living on the fictional Craggy Island. It was a hilairious show and has something of a cult following today. Tedfest is the tribute paid to the show and includes events like the 'Song for Europe' contest, poking fun at Eurovision, the 'Nuns and Preists 5-a-side' tournament, and the Toilet D*** comedy search, unearthing new comedic talent all over Ireland with the final in Galway this Wednesday, to mention just a few of the Father Ted-inspired events. And I don't have tickets. Nor do I have money to get tickets, given that I'm trying to find somewhere to live for the next couple of months and have to save for a potential last second flight home. But lucky for me, it seems that there are certain things that you can just turn up for. It might not be the same - it probably won't be, but it's better then nothing, I'm thinking. In the immorta words of Father Ted's housekeeper Mrs Doyle, oh go on then. Go on, go on, go on....go on.

So long, farewell...well, kind of.

I know, I know...I haven't posted in an eternity. I fell off the face of the internet and into an incredibly busy life for a while there, and then disaster struck - from all angles, all at once. That disaster knows how to plot the downfall of a cocky mere mortal who was beginning to think she had her life back on course at last. Meet a nice boy, head home for a nice Christmas and have a budget plan in place to let you not only pay the rent, but actually save money - the novelty! - as well as thinking that you've managed to esape the sickness that has knocked over everybody you have anything to do with, and you might as well be poking ou your tongue and pulling faces at fate, asking for something to go wrong. Well, it seems that the face I was pulling was particularly tempting.

One day, and the nice boy disappeared, the job was put on hold until I can produce a new visa, the budget was completely blown out of the water by the lack of work, and the nasty bug - the flu - struck. Actually, it wasn't even one day. It was all over the course of about 4 hours. Who knows why things happen that way, when circumstance conspire to see just how much you can handle without going round the bend or curling up in a little ball hoping that nothing else will happen (turns out, it will...while you're curled up on the couch, your boiler will go out and you'll have no hot water, and no heating).

So, after a week of brain wracking trying to find a solution, but really only discovering just how much Michael Buble and Snow Patrol get played during the day on Capital Radio, I'm bidding London a fond, and hopefully temporary, farewell. I'm off to Ireland for a while to keep myself amused while I wait out my visa. Sure, there will be visits back to my flat. The nostalgia won't be quite the same though. For starters, while I've been home, things have started to go right with the flat...the landlord finally seemed to grasp the concept that a leakng roof isn't ideal for anybody. Soon he'll realise that the leaking pipe in the downstairs hallway is also a problem, but not nearly as much as the lovely mushroom style fungus that is now growing underneath the drip on the wall and the carpet. Hmm...I wonder what Irish plumbing is like? Maybe there's a silver lining in every cloud after all...