In which TFL, the immigration service, and the cat conspire against me
Last night our trip back ("Northern Line or Picadilly?") was marred by wrong decision making. We had a delicious transfer straight on to a Wimbledon train at Earl's Court - then sat there for six minutes or so. It pulled out of the station ... and then we were in West Kensington! Blast! Everyone on the train was quite pissed off and the driver apologized and said he'd been given signals to go to THIS station and not Wimbledon as his train had said. I think there were about 200 people that all got off and had to go UP and OVER to the other platform, then wait for another eight minutes or so, then go DOWN and under and just miss a Wimbledon train, then wait for about 12 minutes for the next one. So we got home at about ten 'til midnight. GRRRR.
Then I remembered we are supposed to gather our American bank account statements so we can take them into the lawyer (see yesterday's post re: work permit). So we dug around and discovered, lo, we are on a paperless system with them, which means we need to have them print out and then mail us certified copies of our statements. GRRR.
So finally I'm getting ready to go to bed, taking out my contact lenses, and I can hear the cat scratching in her litterbox. I go into the bathroom - and she's missed the litterbox entirely for some reason unknown. Cue find paper towels, remove bathmat, apply spray bleach, sweep, etc., get washer going to deal with bathmat.