Police Registration
When I moved to UK in 2011 for studies, I had to register my address at the Police Station. Coming from Chile, this sounded strange to me, but my housemate warned me about the risks of not living legally in Britain. He was from a Middle East country and knew well what I needed to do, so his help and good intentions were appreciated.
This happened two weeks after my arrival, and if you consider that for the first 6 days I was jet-lagged, I was properly functioning for about a week only. I was still learning to cross the street without freezing at the sight of a car and a driver that looked wrong-sided; money also posed a challenge: many different coins, different bills, and a different value form the “pesos” that I had used all my life.
I searched the directions to get to the Police Station, and I also got the exact amount to pay for the registration fee (a little more than £30). The next day I took a bus, followed all the instructions step by step and by the time I found the main entrance, the office was closed. “It doesn’t matter”, I said to myself, “now that I know the way I can get here faster next time”.
The following day I returned to the Police Headquarters, as I was sitting on the bus I tried to convince myself that everything happened for a reason, that all was OK, that perhaps getting there at 8 am would have been too early. The office opened at 9 am. I arrived half an hour earlier and outside the building there was already a queue of about 20 people. I could hear, at least, four different languages but I couldn’t understand a word of what those people were saying. I stood at the end of the queue, and fixed my skirt which looked even shorter next to the Muslim girls who were dressed in tunics and matching scarves to cover their hair. It got very windy and cold, but the Chinese girl next to me looked colder. I tried hard to keep calm and found a book in my bag, I had to read a long chapter for my next class.
The office opened at 9 o’clock and we all entered fast, I wanted to keep reading and just ignore everyone around me. I was feeling trapped between the foreign languages and the obligations of a Master’s student. The queue moved faster than I thought and I calculated that it was going to take me less than two hours to do everything. The waiting room was warmer than outside so things were OK.
“Counter 4, please”, said a female voice very similar to a SatNav. It was my turn, I passed all the documents, the exact amount of money, the pictures and my passport. The policewoman asked me to sign the space for the picture; she took my passport and asked me to wait. Two minutes later she was back and with warm kindness and a pretty smile, she explained:
“There is a list of countries that do not need to register at the Police Station. Chile is one of them”
“So, I just need to go?” — I asked just to make sure.
Yes, you don’t need to register here.
“Gosh!” I shouted in my head, “next time I check the list of countries, or, I don’t wear a mini-skirt”.
A cup of coffee proved to be sweet and warm enough to change my mood and I could find two silver lines on that cloud. The first silver line: I was living legally in UK all the time. The second one: I had £30 to spend, so while I was having coffee I texted a classmate:
“Would you join me for dinner? Choose the restaurant, the budget is £30”.
I left the café thinking of the kind of food I was soon going to try, and enjoying the timid sun despite the cool wind.
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