Why Proofreading Matters

Well, I made it to Glasgow.  I flew out of Asheville and had a long layover in Newark, NJ, so the family came by the airport to say hello, which was nice.  Then a little over a seven-hour flight to Glasgow, on the driest airplane I've ever been on.  They had the air vents blasting like crazy, and everyone got off the plane with a sore throat.  Not a bad flight otherwise, though.  The real hitch came when I arrived at the customs desk.

I think everyone gets a little nervous when they go up to the customs desk, whether or not they are trying to smuggle in their favorite pickled meats or illicit liquor.  There's something about the way they look at you that makes you feel like a criminal.  But I strolled pleasantly up to the desk and gave the man my passport and entry card, upon which I had listed my occupation as "student."  He asked me if I was a student in Scotland, and I told him I'd be starting in September.

"Do you have any documents to prove that?"  he asked.  Fortunately, I was prepared with proof of my federal loans and my university acceptance paper, and thought I'd be just fine.

"Hmmm.  Have a seat.  I just need to check some dates,"  he said, getting up from his desk and disappearing behind one of several doors.  I was left sitting to the side of the line for customs, along with some poor bastard having a similar problem.  He worked with a company that set up booths at conventions, and was only staying for the weekend, but they wouldn't let him in without some confirmation or something.  Dunno, but he looked pretty miserable.

Anyway, I waited for close to an hour, watching the clock and flinching whenever someone came in from the employee doors, wondering what had become of my bureaucrat.  When he returned, several years later, he called me up to his desk.  He took my fingerprints on a little electronic pad, told me that he'd sorted things out, and was really quite nice (can't fault the border control people for that, anyway).  Opening up my passport, he turned to the page where my (fancy, holographic, and very expensive) visa was printed.

"Look at the dates," he said.  And sure enough, in tiny, 9-pt letters, it said that my entry date was 08-09-13, and my departure date was 08-09-13.  Effectively, I was permitted to stay in the UK for less than a day.  So much for my $500 visa.  Anyway, he had to cancel that visa and stamped a new one on my passport, writing in the correct dates.  He also gave me a number to contact his office, and warned that I would probably have this problem every time I entered the UK.

Fortunately, my new flatmate didn't give up on me, so I was able to meet her at the airport and get back to the flat once I got my bags.  Things have been pretty smooth since then.  I slept most of the day yesterday, and then I got up and found the grocery store, called Morrison's, today.  Food in Scotland is pretty cheap, actually, and I had fun in the cheese and smoked fish sections.  The store is only a ten- or fifteen-minute walk from the house, so not too bad to do with groceries.

This afternoon, I took a longer walk to Anniesland Cross (the little neighborhood I'm in is called Anniesland, and is very close to the vet school), where my big excitement was buying a packet of tissues.  I have a cold.  There was also a bathtub in the middle of the sidewalk, which was silly.  But it was nice to find my way there, since that's where the closest banks and pharmacies and other important things are.  Now I'm back at home, thinking about taking a nap.  I never had this much trouble with jet lag when I was a kid...

Just a side note that I've forgotten the cable that connects my camera to the computer, so there will be no pictures until my wonderful boyfriend Matt sends it, or I get another one.  So apologies, but I am taking photos, and will post them as soon as I can.