As the minute hand on my watch slowly makes another round, more and more people enter through the sliding doors of the Medicare centre. Last time I was here they were still on strike, proof that one can cross the earth, but government bureaucracy will be the same all over.
I’m the fourteenth person to take a seat in the waiting area. Small chairs arranged like the interior of an airplane, in the colour green one normally associates with spinach-baby-vomit. I wouldn’t necessarily say unfitting.
Medicare is the Australian version of public health insurance. It is comparable to the Dutch system, as Medicare pays you back for certain medical costs as long as you incurred them in a public hospital. To use Medicare one needs a little plastic card, one of which I am trying to obtain today. It should be fairly straight forward, bring my passport, application form, and copy of my visa, all of which I have on me at the moment.
That said, it was supposed to be equally straight forward last time I was here. It turned out it wasn’t. They were on “industrial action”. Two words which, to me at least, sounded like hard work. But it was simply a euphemism for striking. And even that was done half arsed since they only did “certain things”. Dealing with new applications, wasn’t one of them.
To my utter surprise my name got called as I was typing that. Being outside with my Medicare card in 30 minutes, and being helped by a most friendly lady almost makes me feel bad writing that stuff just now. If I was in a better mood I’d change it, but while checking the mailbox at home, my new iPhone slipped out of my pocket and hit the pavement. I have one of those tempered glass screen protectors. Well, let’s say they keep your screen as save as Trump will Australia when Uncle Kim cracks the shits. Not. At. All. So.. screen all busted up, I guess the money we were saving next month, now that we no longer have to pay a mortgage, will partly be spent on a new screen. Wonder if I can claim that with Medicare?
unfit to fly
Earlier this week I drove South to Jandakot Airport, the regional airport of Perth. I visited Rotorvation, to have a little chat about obtaining a Commercial Pilot License (CPL). I figured moving to Australia, in a way, is starting all over again. How many people wouldn’t change something if they got to start over again?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the type of person who is filled with regrets, but if I had to name one, it would be talking myself out of becoming a helicopter pilot. So, like I said, since I have to start over again anyway, I reckoned I might as well do it now. I’m planning on starting my theoretical courses as soon as I get the money from selling the house. And yes, this means I will likely write more about flying in the future, unless CASA (Civil Aviation Safety Authority) deems me unfit to fly of course, in which case I’ll have to find something else to do.
In the meantime Lightroom keeps crashing while trying to upload some pictures from my camera, to edit and use as the feature image for this blog. Technology is absolutely not agreeing with me today. I might have to admit defeat and grab one of the books that arrived in the mail yesterday, then wait for my watch to near six o’clock. We’re going out to dinner for Dookie’s birthday, provided the car doesn’t turn on me as well later today.
definitely not recommended
For the rest of my first two weeks, I feel I haven’t done all that much. Emma disagrees, so maybe I’m being too hard on myself. I keep myself busy with cleaning the house, doing laundry, trying not to get too upset with the slow internet connections in Australia. At least it’s better than rural France. The road signage in Australia takes some getting used to as well, but I can proudly say I’m getting better at it every time I drive. Which is a bigger achievement than out doing the internet in France.
I also got rid of the shackles called jet lag, but coming in at midnight is definitely not recommended. Still, the flight itself is preferable. Luckily I won’t be flying for a while on the commercial airlines. It’s so nice to no longer live out of a suitcase and just have your stuff around you. Opening the bathroom cupboard and being able to choice from six different beardoils is a small luxury, yet a nice one. Home is where your beardoils are.