I have my visa... Almost.

An hour and a half ago, I received this in an email:

I threw on a jacket, yanked on my gloves and sprinted to reception (uphill in snow, both ways). I had to ask for directions, but after dodging heavy machinery twice and braving arctic conditions, I made it to the office. A sign said reception was downstairs, so down the stairs I went.

Only to discover that there was not a soul to be found in the office.

Apparently office hours are from 10:55am to 11:am and 4:30pm to 4:31pm. I suppose the French need more free time for bread-eating, surrender and nakedity.

I thought, "Well, maybe they left it lying around anyway," so I looked behind the desk and in all the cupboards and drawers, as well as in the wall-safe and behind some hideous paintings. Nothing.

It has to be here somewhere.

Girard must have taken it with him when he went to the bakery.

So I went home and facebooked mourned my rotten luck, while simultaneously doing Gangnam Style around this tiny little apartment because my visa is less than 20m away from me at this very moment.

I was going to take photos of the adventure of fetching my visa, but my camera's battery is dead. Enjoy the Dylan Moran video instead.