I've had a very pleasant few days away lurking by the pool at a friends villa just North of Malaga. I looked forward to the return journey via my favourite airport at Gatwick aka Death Valley. Students of current affairs will have noted just recently, the adverse publicity concerning the breakdown of the electronic flight information boards at said airport leading to the inevitable and some say, more efficient means of distributing that information via handwritten noticeboards.
Having arrived at the North Terminal and walked - with luggage - what seemed like about five miles albeit some on travelators, I arrived - deep joy - at Passport Control. It is somewhile since I last negotiated the maze that is Gatwick and I wasn't prepared for electronic passport reading. And by the look of things neither was anyone else.
There were, Heaven knows how many, what looked like the stalls into which horses are pushed at the start of a race. Despite the crowd milling around they were nearly all empty. I waited my turn. A sprightly girl with dubious clarity was attempting to describe the sequence of checking starting with the placement of the passport under the scanner. My passport was resolute in its four times rejection of the process. I turned to my passport control guide who wordlessly pointed towards checkout 18 complete with a person hand checking fitness to enter the country. I walked the Avenue of Shame to the Desk of Disgrace.
The man on duty and I exchanged pleasantries along the lines of how much taxpayers investment had been spent on a system that was so obviously flawed that it didn't work, well, not completely but, most of the time. After three attempts, he surrendered, gave me my passport and wished me a good day - rather firmly I thought.
Yes, Britain's working well.
Having arrived at the North Terminal and walked - with luggage - what seemed like about five miles albeit some on travelators, I arrived - deep joy - at Passport Control. It is somewhile since I last negotiated the maze that is Gatwick and I wasn't prepared for electronic passport reading. And by the look of things neither was anyone else.
There were, Heaven knows how many, what looked like the stalls into which horses are pushed at the start of a race. Despite the crowd milling around they were nearly all empty. I waited my turn. A sprightly girl with dubious clarity was attempting to describe the sequence of checking starting with the placement of the passport under the scanner. My passport was resolute in its four times rejection of the process. I turned to my passport control guide who wordlessly pointed towards checkout 18 complete with a person hand checking fitness to enter the country. I walked the Avenue of Shame to the Desk of Disgrace.
The man on duty and I exchanged pleasantries along the lines of how much taxpayers investment had been spent on a system that was so obviously flawed that it didn't work, well, not completely but, most of the time. After three attempts, he surrendered, gave me my passport and wished me a good day - rather firmly I thought.
Yes, Britain's working well.
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