Potsdam. never been there.

Lesson 2: Power conveys privilege. Postion in bureaucracy conveys power. Relationship to power-broker/user determines necessary tactical approach.

MMM. Sun-Zu wasn't that good, was he?!

I approach Hector.

I explain the need for a change to the form and ask to substitute my correct one for that currently in situ in the hallowed halls of yet-to-be completed visadom.

Ulp! I was expecting my somewhat expatiating demeanour and rank idiocy to be sufficient to smooth my passage. I've even lowered myself to his eye-level, body-language and politics and all.

Not so. Perhaps he's still miffed from his encounter with swampy? Damn Swampy!!!

He asks me what the requisite changes are. I explain that they're the dates of entry and exit: they don't match the visa request and they should, apparently.

Hmmm. Perhaps not. I receive a little lecture. Not a big one: I'm neither important enough nor irritating enough to receive both barrels and sensible enough to concur, nod, repeat and NOT ARGUE/comment upon others' perceived inefficiencies. Basically, Hector is explaining that he's the expert and not the people who told me I needed to change the dates of the visa's applicability. It's a moot point, but as long as the dates get me in the country, the visa's gonna get changed and overwritten anyway.

So I demur. And then ask which date I should sign the new form from. I didn't want to assume when someone could possibly scupper my request in view of such a small technicality. From the date of the original is the exasperated answer, but the one I was expecting.

The visa will be ready on ...(the date it would originally have been ready), which again is something I wasn't expecting to be the case but is a result! Nearly outta here!

Wasn't the best-managed encounter I've had, but at least I still only paid less than 1/3rd that swampy had to and there should be no reason for the border guards to ... the less said the better!

Day 3. Arrive. Queue. No-one to deal with queries...? They arrive in dribs and drabs, 5 minutes later. Strange.

Hector arrives last. Alone.

Like the others he disappears through the door that marks the demarcation between the "here" and the "there".

He appears seconds later to ask if anyone's waiting for their visa. I reply in the affirmative and after another 30 seconds it's in my hand, in my passport.

I walk blithely though the door to Scottish soil with a sense of glee as I look at the new faces, queuing to make their visa applications and the sense of chest-swelling excitement that comes as you realise you're about to embark on a journey and the feeling that 'Yes. You're staying, I'm not! I'm no longer a part of your days, but my own.'

I check the visa.

The dates are those on the official invitation. Phew!

Now, where did I put that glue...?