And so, after a brief respite, I return to the immigration hell otherwise known as my office. The visa I attempted to apply for before realising you had to be Canadian sits tauntingly in another tab. Tomorrow, when it's a more appropriate hour, I'll call someone to see if there's something similar available for people from my own country. At some point tonight I have to call the ATF, but the later it gets the less I can be bothered.
Fuck, why couldn't I be offered a job in Australia or somewhere with a nice, easy, working holiday program? Fuck.
I distracted myself for 10 minutes looking for my passport unsuccessfully, then Googled the Olympic headlines. Boxing and running dominated.
After an hour of procrastination, my phone rang. I'm heading to the Canary Isles in two weeks and my friend needed my passport number. How wonderfully convenient. Maybe I'll get offered a job in Gran Canaria where I can move without a problem.
Fuck it, I have things to do other than vaguely scroll through programs which I am ineligible for. I fixed a length of wire approximately a meter long to the roof of the range earlier and therefore have the accompanying three bits of paperwork to complete. Risk assessments for completing the work (stood on table, hit nail with hammer), Range Log (work completed; wire fixed to ceiling), and the Asbestos Record (did not go near asbestos). Then, all that needs to go down in a log of the time I've spent on it, theoretically so I can be credited with the hours I've spent in the service of mostly irritating kids. Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork.
Shit, I'm going out. I'll call the embassy in the morning