Part 5. De facto. The best day I've ever had.

When I was 10 my mum brought home a fundraiser for the local Scouts. It was one of those games where you had to write your name next to one of 40 English football teams. 

There was a gold strip at the top of the game that, once removed, would reveal the name of one of the teams. Whoever had selected the winning team in the game below won the prize. 

It was 50p a go. The prize was 5 quid. It was 1979. 5 quid was worth $8000 in 1979. It's worth about 32c now. That's the Australian mining boom and the GFC for ya.

Anyway, I decided that I simply had to win the 5 quid. I had two choices; I could guess correctly, or I could cheat. I didn't fancy my chances at guessing correctly. Like I say, there were 40 teams to choose from. By the time I'd decided to cheat I'd already spent the 5 quid in my head. On sweets from the local newsagents. And on a new tennis racquet from same newsagents. Tennis racquets were cheaper in 1979. So were sweets.

Whilst my mum was otherwise engaged, (it was a Monday evening, so - obviously - it was Coronation Street), I carefully pulled off the gold strip, saw that the winning team was Blackburn Rovers, wrote my name in the winning box below, dropped my 50p into the little plastic bag and .... froze. The little gold strip wouldn't re-stick. 

My cunning plan quickly unravelled. It didn't just unravel. It spiraled. First downwards. And then completely out of control. I tried licking the back of the gold strip to make it stick better. It shriveled up on my tongue. I pulled at it to stretch it out again. It broke in two. And then one half stuck to my finger, which was wet from trying to stick it back down. It completely disintegrated. And then Coronation Street ended. My mum would be putting the kettle on any minute. The kettle was right there, in the kitchen, next to me, in the middle of the scene of the crime. My crime. I stood there in a state of almost uncontrollable blind panic. Right on cue my mum walked in. She asked me what I was doing. Cheating. That's what I was doing. Cheating. Badly.

(As punishment for cheating I had to buy all 40 guesses in the game. And I had to give the 5 quid 'winnings' to the Scouts. Cheating never pays. It cost me 20 quid).

I had that same feeling of uncontrollable blind panic whilst I was sitting in Immigration with Picky. We weren't even cheating. We were 100% 'clean'. We were 'on the level'. We were 'dead-set straight'. But Immigration's like that. It's one of those places where you feel guilty before you even start. Before you've even opened your gob you feel like you're lying through your teeth. They like it that way I'm sure. Those Immigration Agents. They love watching you stress whilst you're sitting, sweating buckets in the Immigration Holding Room.

Picky had come 'home' to Oz on a tourist visa. She only had three months. We spent those three months 'preparing our case'. For Immigration. And there we were sitting, sweating, waiting for our appointment. The old bloke (me) and the young chick (Picky). In Immigration. I was nervous as a kitten. It looked dodgy. It felt dodgy. I felt dodgy. "So, sir, you met a teenager on a beach in Thailand did you? And you want us to give her Australian Residency, do you? Not bloody likely'. I could see them leading Picky away in handcuffs as they lectured me about 'finding someone my own age at the local bowling club'.

"TIPLER!" (It was pre-name change. You can catch up on the whole name change thang right HERE). Our moment had arrived. This was it.

We were led into an I.I.B. - Immigration Interrogation Booth. I was half-expecting the stern looking Immigration Agent to don her rubber gloves and whip out the cold spoons. Psychologically, I wasn't quite ready to drop my pants and bend over. 

But she didn't. So I didn't. 

She tapped at a computer instead. Her face changed.  She was looking at the I.A.I.R. - the International Airport Immigration Records. Picky had visited Australia more than 10 times in the past 3 years. Her face changed. The Immigration Agent suddenly had that unmistakable 'ah-so-you've-not-just-found-her-on-the-internet-and-shipped-her-over' look on her face.

& then Picky produced The File. It was a huge ring-binder full of 'our stuff'. Emails, photos, letters, boarding passes, tickets, emails to her parents about us, to her friends about us, birthday cards, Xmas cards, Valentine's cards, any-day cards. The File contained 4 years of 'stuff'. Our stuff. It was our entire relationship ... with two small holes punched in the side and filed. The Agent was stunned. I got the feeling that she was more accustomed to the 'it's-clear-you've-just-found-her-on-the-internet-and-shipped-her-over'* type of case. She didn't say much more. The gloves and cold spoons remained unused. I was mildly disappointed.

Case closed. Picky was in. Just like that. The vast vastness that is Australia was hers. Ours.

We left Immigration with a freshly-stamped passport and an O.I.S. - Official Immigration Status. De facto.

We weren't 'lovers' or 'partners', or even just 'a couple'. None of these states mean anything in the ever-suspicious eyes of Immigration. You can only ever be one of two things - married or de facto. 

The day we were officially de facto was officially 'the best day I've ever had'. 

Then again, the day we were officially married was officially 'the worst day I've ever had'. 

But that's another story altogether! 

Pip pip

* I would like to state for the record that there's nowt wrong with meeting people - male or female - on the internet, or indeed with 'shipping them over' anywhere. As long as they fully consent to being 'shipped'.