To begin the process of getting my residence card I had to go to the central government office for foreigners. The office is pleasant enough and the EU department well staffed, even over staffed given the work load. There was no queue because very few people from the EU seem to want to live in Poland. I sat down in a cubicle and was immediately grilled by a smug, blond bureaucrat. Why was my Polish so poor after (looking at my expired card) five years in Poland? Wrong there. 11. Her fellow workers were enjoying what was clearly a well used technique. I suggested that since she didn’t know who I was she ought to be more cautious before making personal comments about me. She laughed scornfully. I lost my cool. “Where is your boss?” Her colleagues suddenly found a lot to do on their desks. She turned pale. She gave me a room number. “Name, I said. Name! Write it down. Yours too!”
I opened the door. In front of me, behind her desk sat a small, large titted, dyed redhead. My vision of post Communist hell. She was giving a dark skinned couple a gruelling. I withdrew, assessed the situation, ate humble pie, re-seated myself meekly in the still empty chair, collected the documents and left. However, as a parting salvo, I gave the warning that the next time I saw the minister I would tell him how I have been treated. Which minister, I wondered, as I as fumed down the corridor.