A Productive Tea

To the Old Mill and tea with my good friend Fiona, with whom I had shared a room with at Oxford. I was reading English literature, she was studying tribolite fossils, so we got along just fine. From there I had gone to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, to pursue my interest in Ruhmkorff coils, while Fiona had come to Toronto, and obtained work at the Royal Ontario Museum (it has an excellent tribolite collection). I had stayed in England, and because I was fluent in Russian and Mandarin, was interviewed by Sir Harry (as he then wasn't) and the rest is mostly classified history.

Fiona's interest in tribolites waned, and she then was hired by the Canadian Government, where she now had a Directorate in Immigration, and was to my knowledge being squired about by Code Barry, my CSIS contact. How her expertise in fossils helps her work in immigration policies and programs escapes me.

We dressed up for this occasion. I wore an YSL paisley blouse and a knee-high brown corduroy skirt designed by Vera Wang. My Robert Clergerie boots helped things along. I was, however, particularly enamoured of the skirt -- I had it altered slightly to include a small inner pocket close to my left thigh, just right for a Derringer. I could retrieve and fire the weapon in a split second (practice is always a Good Thing).

Well, a girl in my line of work can't be too careful these days.

Fiona looked lovely in a blue woolen sheath that screamed Donna Karan, and her blue Jimmy Choo pumps were a perfect match. The government was obviously paying well. Recession? What recession?

As we daintily gobbled (possible oxymoron there) delicious cucumber sandwiches and scones laced with large dollops of black currant jam, all washed down with a good Oolong, I learned what is new in the immigration game. Fiona mentioned how important it was to master either English or French, and obtain at least a working knowledge of Canadian history. No news there. What was new was the following.

According to Fiona, Canadian gun control came as a revelation to many landed immigrants, including a fair smattering of Americans. A crime committed was, needless to say, not helpful in obtaining citizenship. A crime committed with a gun was fatal, and even possession was quite enough to incur deportation. And at this point in the conversation, Fiona gave me a hard stare, an action which led me to think that Code Barry had let something slip....

Another hurdle that immigrants had to master was, of all things, queuing. There was an etiquette at work here, and nothing enraged Canadians more than someone butting into the head of a line and displacing those patiently waiting. Not a few politicians have come to grief on this cross, and the practice should be avoided at all costs. Except perhaps where the Sherbourne bus is concerned, given that any number of mental health operations are strung out along its route. The exception, then, that proves the rule.

Finally, bribery in any form was forbidden. This, Fiona stated, was perhaps the most difficult thing for a landed immigrant to grasp. The societies from which they had come often bloody well ran on bribery, and to eschew the practice was very difficult indeed. In Fiona's words, "It had become a habit, and not one easily broken."

"I understand," I said. As the physicist Rupert Sheldrake once commented, 'The universe has habits, not laws.'"

Fiona just stared, then continued, indicating that the Immigration Ministry had reached a deal with the various police forces that when offered a bribe from a prospective immigrant, the cop was to indicate to the person that they had committed a criminal offence. The next time it occurred, a charge would be laid. For the most part, this approach seemed to be working, although Fiona mentioned that the policy was received with amazement by the immigrants.

"But what," I asked, "of refugees?"

"Now that," Fiona replied, "is a different ballgame entirely. Let's talk about that another time. Right now I'm enjoying this, and why ruin a perfectly good tea?"

Why indeed.