|It's that time of year again, when we play Fun With Immigration. Last night, we thought it must be getting close to when I have to put in my permanent-residency application, so we looked at my passport to find what the date was when I arrived in Australia. "Oh," we said, "12th of June. Not July. That's not very good."|
The date at which I have to have put in my application is one year after entering the country, ie. three days and an hour from then (it being 11pm), excepting that the 12th is a Saturday, which made it two days and an hour. "What do we need?"
There followed about six hours of frantic scanning-and-printing of things we'd need to include copies of, filling in forms then realising we'd done it wrong, and repeated exclamations of "argh, we need (thing X)", where thing X is something that requires the use of other people, such as statutory declarations from people who know us, proof that those same people are Australian citizens, recent passport photographs and various documents being certified by a Justice of the Peace.
Then we slept, and today we accosted people (Holly's mother and Scribblette), got them to compose the statutory declarations, and got the requisite things photocopied and certified. And then spent about another six hours scanning and printing more things, and collating all the various stuff. End result - a stack of approximately 200 sheets of paper to be hefted to the immigration office tomorrow, where we will get three replacement fifteen-page forms for the screwed up ones (with such grievous errors as "using a blue biro instead of black" and "crossing out a date to put a correct date in its place"), copy the information from our previously filled forms, and then hermetically seal the whole lot in a futuristic tomb for future generations to find. And then I say "yes, I have seen a drop-bear" and become an Australian citizen.