LONDON PARIS

By MARIAN SOMERS

IHAVE been offered a job, a job in Paris, on a French newspaper. It is the sudden realisation of all my hopes. In front of me is a concrete and serious chance of becoming a journalist if I can make good where I start. It is the beginning of a career. But I did not know that I had to go through hell to get to it. A solid wall of red tape, official documents and waste of time stands as high as the Himalayas between me and my journey to Paris.

As soon as I received my letter of engagement, two months ago, I went to the Labour Exchange. I was sent to the regional Appoint- ments Office. There I was, interviewed by a kind, white-haired lady, to whom I explained I had had three years in the Services and now wanted to start on my life career. She listened to me sympathetically and promised to write to London to obtain my release from the Ministry of Labour. " You will hear in a few days," she informed me. A week passed, then another, then a third. Every morning I flew to the letter-box to see if my release was there. Then I went up to London myself to see what was happen- ing. After half an hour my papers were traced.

" Yes, yes, we know all about you. We are waiting for your employer to come and fill a form saying he is ready to engage you."

" But my employer is in Paris. And I sent you a letter of engagement signed by him."

" That's not enough, he must also sign a Ministry of Labour form. We shall have to send it to him."

Another week passed. There was no point in asking either for my visa to enter France or my exit permit to leave England till I knew whether I would be released from National Service. Then at last it came. A little over a month after I had asked for it. At the same time came due support from the " Government depart- ment concerned."

Full of renewed hope, I sent in my blue visa forms to the French Consulate, enclosing a stamped envelope and asking how long it would be before the visa was granted. I wrote to the Passport Office asking for the application forms for an exit permit. No reply came from either office. So I went up to London again. Mind you, I am unemployed at the moment and not very rich, so that each trip is a financial headache. I found the Passport Office buzzing with noises and full of people wandering aimlessly about. No notices, no enquiry-desk where I could ask which counter I had to queue at, because there were about six queues in the main room. Someone sent me upstairs. There I waited for over half an hour, and was told that I had to go downstairs to get the forms. So I went downstairs again and joined a queue. It was hot and stuffy, and people were tired and bad-tempered, which was quite under- standable. After forty minutes I was at the top of the queue.

" Are you a British subject? " I was asked. I said I was.

Wrong counter. Go over to that one."

That one had a queue of ten people. I queued. At the top I was given the forms and told to send in all the papers I had to support my application. I went out bad-tempered and took a taxi to the French Consulate.

There was a queue there, too. It moved even more slowly than in the Passport Office. After three quarters of an hour I went into a large room where a lady with grey hair and a stately composure told me to sit down. I explained that I had sent my forms for a visa with a stamped envelope asking whether my papers were filled in correctly and how long it would be before it was granted.

"We never reply to letters," the lady with the stately composure informed me severely.

I was about to jump to my feet and ask what Consulates were for, when it struck me that it was the wrong psychological moment for a fight. I was at her mercy.

"How do you think we would manage if we had to reply to all the letters we receive," she went on in the same tone. " You'll hear from us in due course, but it won't be before at least six weeks."

I went out confounded. I went out feeling I weighed less than a dead leaf in the west wind. The wall before me was as solid as ever, in spite of the fact that a few bricks had been knocked off the top. So I went home and sent my application for an exit permit, duly stamped by the Food Office and the National Registration Office. Then I waited.

A couple of days ago, something happened suddenly. I got a letter from the Passport Office: Form SL2. The Director presented his compliments to me, acknowledged my letter of three weeks before, enclosed the forms I had requested and asked for my valid passport. Now, nobody had asked for it before. Nor was it asked for on any form that I had been given. I sent it quickly. But with the letter and the forms came a number of rules and regulations for the traveller going to France, complete with " warnings " and " addenda." " Per- sons travelling do so at their own risks," says one of them. " Whilst all protection possible is given to ships, there can be no guarantee of a safe passage.". . —" It is a criminal offence to embark without proper authority," says another. And this in conclusion: —" In no circumstances can reasons be given for the grant or refusal of an Exit Permit "—. .

Finally, the applicant is told how to obtain a passage. In the com- plicated and unintelligible language of official forms: " Applications for passage cannot be entertained until an exit permit (as required in para. 6) and a French visa (as indicated in para. to) have been obtained. They should be made to the Departments concerned as long as possible before the proposed date of travel and (except in such and such a case) not later than two clear weeks for persons in class (a). An application for passage should contain . . ." then follow nine questions which have been answered dozens of times on the dozens of forms already sent in. And at last: " Applications should not be made directly to the Ministry of War Transport or to the Southern Railway." Another blow. I had thought that it would be quite a simple matter to buy a ticket at Victoria on presentation of my exit permit and French visa. This will mean more weeks of delay and more correspondence back and forth with more Government De- partments.

Meanwhile I am waiting. I don't know when I can go yet, or even if I can go at all. Two months have elapsed. And my employer is waiting too. He will probably get tired of it and find someone else to do my work. It would be natural enough if he did. But it would mean the end of my happy hopes of becoming a journalist,—all because it takes endless weeks to get through the maze of red tape that stands solid and impenetrable between Paris and me. Is it thus that ententes cordiales are built?