Print and Be Damned
‘Why won’t you wear gloves when you’re washing the dishes?’ the scowl the husband wore was fast working itself into a gargoyle face. Note: People with long noses should not scowl. For aesthetic reasons. And I had a long line of people behind me, all of them scowling at me. I can’t take so much emotion at 11 o’clock at night. So I decided discretion was the better part of valour just this once. People who know me will not recognise this ‘new’ me, but there you are, needs must.
Finally, after much hesitation, the immigration officer – so young, he probably still used diaper cream – moved the barrier to let me into the UK. ‘New brooms,’ I muttered under my breath, giving him the evil eye.
Meanwhile, the husband had strode off as if he never wanted to know me again. By the time I caught up with him, huffing and puffing, the time for discretion had passed, and I hissed at him, ‘How the hell do you think wearing gloves will get me legible fingerprints?’
For that was what all this was about. My fingerprints. Faint, illegible, non-decipherable and, in this age of biometric testing, apparently more of a barrier to travel than COVID-19. But here’s the thing: my fingerprints have always been a problem. Several encounters in embassies, high commissions and airports have convinced me that my true forte might lie in a life of crime, maybe drug peddling? For I could never be fingerprinted – and identified. Believe me, I’m tempted, only the thought of the long apprenticeship puts me off.
But my non-cooperative fingertips had never before raised doubts on my eligibility to enter a country, least of all the country where I have a proper residence permit to live.
At my last Immigration encounter at Heathrow, the official had laughed at me and said he would let me go if I allowed him to take a photo of my pink, sorry raspberry, ‘Game of Thrones–Crochet’ hoodie. So rarely does a puff of admiration waft my way that I bit down on my initial impulse to tell him ‘Pinterest’. That was at Heathrow, today was only Bristol airport. True, the lady at the Swiss embassy had grumbled under her breath and made me try again and again to get those damn prints on the scanner, but even she had finally given up and granted me a visa.
The son was pleasingly indignant on my behalf. ‘Let Him wash the dishes. You put lots of hand cream – you know the fancy one you bought here in Geneva – and sit back. That will bring out your fingerprints nicely.’
He’d obviously done some research on the problem, and it was all relayed to me in due course. But the crux of the issue was that all the remedial measures he was quoting were beyond my capacity.
Fingerprints, it seems, become faint usually because of dehydration. So lots of water. Now my bladder is notorious on three continents. I’ve even been known to insist on using the toilet on the airplane when it had just taken off. What can I say? The air-hostess was very young and the seats on the plane were obviously newly furbished. From then on, travel, even to the big Tesco in Llansamlet, means judicious consumption of liquids.
There’s a Part B to the dehydration advice. No coffee, no alcohol. How? I wailed, truly upset now.
The coffee is a necessary evil, as far as I’m concerned, if I’m going to be able to get through Security with all my various possessions still in my possession. Especially, my boarding pass. Witness the pink hoodie. Kangaroo pockets are not really my ideal fashion statement – the bump should be in the pocket, no? But it’s perfect for keeping my boarding pass on me.
The tension of getting through Security demands a pint of lager immediately after. Or, these days, a large red wine. Preferably with something cheesy, like fries? The coffee’s hyper after-effects similarly demand a tuning down. Much like a student drinking vodka in Red Bull. My counsellor told me it was important to relax. And I do my best. Even in these trying circumstances
I also genuinely have very, very dry skin. If I had been an orange, the peel would have dropped off by now. My skin sticks on, but just about. I can use heavy duty Hemp Hand Protector and wear the prescribed white gloves all the way to the airport, but by the time I get through Security, my hands look like they were close cousins to prunes. The frequent hand-washing and hand sanitisers that are the new gospels of these Coronous times do nothing to help matters.
So there we are, the husband and I, back home. Day 4, and the pile of dishes in the sink is now threatening to make the long trek to the bathtub. The husband and I will no longer look each other in the eye in case the dreadful words, ‘Who will do the dishes?’, are spoken out aloud.
Speaking of eyes, why can’t they just do an iris scan on me? At least till I get cataracts.
