This evening I jogged over to Fort Canning with a work colleague, and then we ran up the hill there as fast as we could, as many times as we could, before jogging round Boat Quay to cool down. (We only managed to do six repeats of thirty seconds each, which is a long way off the eight 90 second repeats I was doing during preparation for last year’s marathon, but I felt we should take things easy for my friend’s introduction to the harsh world of interval training.)
I walked home, somewhat broken by my exertions, and I must have looked quite odd, toting a backpack with my suit rolled,up inside it and an umbrella when the rain was long gone. Oh, and dripping with sweat, but that goes without saying.
One advantage of this is that I get the lift to myself. Other potential passengers take one look at me and decide to wait for another lift to come. The fact that they do this even when I’m not sweating profusely and only wearing a skimpy top and shorts worries me a little, but I can’t really take offence at it. After all, I like feeling like I have my own exclusive lift to the penthouse suite in a public housing block.
After complaining about how unwelcoming the Singaporean birth certificate is, today I researched visas for spouses for UK residents, only to be aghast when I discovered the onerous financial requirements for my wife to get into the country. It seems a bit unfair that Felicity, who hasn’t done a jot of work in her whole life, gets British citizenship whereas (from the way I’m reading things) if I don’t have a spare £70,000 my wife has to sit around in another country for six months until I’ve proved I can keep her in the manner to which she’s accustomed. All part of the Conservative party trying to show they’re tough on immigration, because the last thing the UK needs is more people. Apart from all the people it needs to do jobs in hospitals and anywhere else the governmental overlords don’t have to worry about. I’m not sure that I really want to go back to the UK anyway, but it’s still galling to see how hard it is. And that’s for somebody like me, with a well-paying job and a high enough level of education to interpret the opaque forms designed by the British Home Office to dissuade anyone from coming.
It’s not like the streets are paved with gold over there, but I’d like Felicity to have a country to call "home"; maybe that turns out to be Canada, with its polite people, flocks of moose and branches of Tim Hortons. Although I’ve yet to make a concerted attempt to battle through the Canadian visa documentation… Perhaps that’s a battle for another day.