The Oxford Blues

It's just gone 14 years since I left Oxford; I spent nearly two years in the gorgeously quaint, aristocratic English city. While I could never give up my Australian sun-drenched ways, I find myself thinking about England quite a bit; particularly my beloved Oxfordshire. During these times, I find the most excellent way to forget that I'm not there is to remind myself of how miserable the wretched weather made me feel; and then I'm all happy little vegemites again.

But if I could nab a British passport through a weetbix competition, then I would not dilly-dally in making plans to work over there for a few months during the miserableness that Canberra refers to as winter. Although the whole British austerity puts me off a little, as does the ‘orribly high unemployment rate - as if the Poms weren't depressed enough already.  But I reckon I'll be returning to the Mother Country for a visit next year, and will make sure I drop in on my old stomping ground of Oxfordshire to do a spot of stomping and what not.

One of the first jobs I undertook in Oxford, back in the day, was working as an office ring-in for a recruitment agency called Office Angels, which was sort of like Charlie's Angels, except that the work was less perilous, less thrilling, less appealing and far more focused on paperwork than kicking butt.

After about a month of working for the ‘Angels’ I was awarded the Oxford district 'Employee of the Month', evidently because I had worked more than 40 hours in a week for consecutive weeks. That's a big deal in England apparently. Even the laziest full-time public servant in Australia has to work a minimum of 37.5 hours per week. After concluding that it wasn't a wacky recruitment agency hoax, I graciously accepted a certificate, a cheap bottle of wine, and a vulgar bouquet of helium balloons for my troubles. Jolly good times indeed, old sport.

Another job I had was far more exciting; as a racing car driver. Well, that's not completely true, but I did work for a British Touring Car team and spent a year travelling the countryside with the TWR Volvo team as a PR assistant. At least I think that was my job description; who the hell knows what I was supposed to be doing.  I only left that gig because of the whole immigration thing, which I like to pretend didn't happen, but too many people know about it to allow me to forget. 

In a nutshell, I got caught working on a tourist visa, as it turns out, after my working holiday visa had expired.  I'd love to say it's a long story, but the older I get, the more irresponsible and ridiculous and plain stupid the whole saga sounds.  I hope the British Immigration lady who saw right through me has had a good life, because she was quite brilliant at her job.  Kudos.