I’ll be waking up at 3.30 am tomorrow, just in time to get dressed and shaved and ready to run down the hill — with horses randomly scattered around — to catch the train. I have scheduled my visa interview for tomorrow and now, when all the forms are neatly folded in my girlish pink folder everyone was given last week in Amsterdam, I feel unease. For once again I am putting my fate into hands of a complete stranger, although I’ll have to provide him with an overabundance of materials that detail every aspect of my life — from my parents’ addresses to my work experience to my bank account balances — so he will know me quite well at the end.
I’m nervous.
