Passportly Impaired

Whoa, guys!  Don't panic!  I'm back.  It's okay.  Resume tea/coffee break, blog-reading routine.

Good news: this entry will be nice and short because I've only been back a few days.  Those few days have, however, been days of great joy and reunion and tactile expressions of oneness from the staff and friends at the Big International School.  Everyone seems pleased to see each other and be back from the grey and rain of England/Ireland/Scotland/Australia.  This feeling will be short-lived, though, because rainy season is almost upon us (give or take a few months) and this morning as I swam in my apartment pool (oh, now I remember why I moved to Vietnam) it actually rained.  Shocker.  Who forgot to tell the weather that it was the dry season?  You just can't get the staff.

There have been a few amusing moments since The Return, including the discovery that it is not just I who is a stupid stupid head when it comes to airports and passports.  When I was casually peeing in the Gatwick Airport North Terminal toilets, the tannoy man piped up asking for a certain Aw Pet to return to security.  "I know an 'Aw Pet', I thought to myself."  Then the tannoy man repeated his plea, asking for the Aw Pet flying to Hanoi.  "That is Aw Pet!" I thought to myself and then, of course, washed my hands.  Turns out that Aw Pet - in his debilitated, bin-puking New Year's Day state - had left his passport either in a restaurant or a shop.  What an idiot, right?  When I saw him, I reassured him that I had done the same thing in Toulouse airport this Christmas, bringing my number of Idiot Passport Incidents up to an impressive four, including the great Canada sprint to London - remember that one, Laura/parents?

I then discovered that my Shining Shamrock had attempted to return to the green fields of her homeland over Christmas by rocking up to the airport without her residency card, and only an expired tourist visa to show meekly to the immigration officials.  They were not convinced by her lilting Irish charm, however, and dragged her into a small room, shouted at her in Vietnamese until she cried (I don't think she cried - she's not the crying type; she's hard as nails) before finding an air hostess who spoke passable English who gave her permission to phone a friend and beg her to bring the residency card to the airport, with something like 20 minutes left before her plane home to the warm glow of Christmas took off.

I imagine the final scene to be something akin to the 1998 Renault Clio advert with Vic Reeves (don't know what I'm talking about?  Check it out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DwqEpwO-5PE).

Shining Shamrock was released, pushing the guards aside in her haste, from the tiny room.  She was wearing a hat, which fell off, and her hair blew out behind her in a thick and glossy wave.  She grabbed the balcony rail with both hands and, panting, scanned the heaving crowd in the airport below her.  Suddenly, she saw a blonde head moving erratically through the crowd.  "Saviour!" she shouted, as loud as she could.  The blonde head looked up, saw her standing on the balcony.  "Shamrock!" the Saviour returned, and in slow motion, with a heart-racing soundtrack, the two ran towards each other, Shamrock taking two stairs at a time.  They embraced, briefly, but only long enough for Shamrock to whisper, "Thanks, you legend," and then she returned to the guards, waving the residency card triumphantly and jumped on her plane (which was waiting just outside the guard room), complained about the fact that the food on Vietnam Airlines is awful, and then jetted off to her family in Ireland humming The Pogues' 'Fairytale of New York' to herself and directing all the insults at the Vietnamese airport security staff... you scumbag, you maggot, you cheap, lousy faggot...

Phew!

So it's not just me who is Passportly Impaired (or musically abusive to others).  You see: not such a special case, after all!