Bloody foreigner – Bureaucracy Games #3

 

I sat down on a very hard chair and took another look. Yes, no mistake, they had got through a whole two people in the time I’d been gone. So I did some meditation. Once you’re in the Official Standard Bureaucracy Game Waiting Room, you’re in an endurance contest and it’s essential to be calm or you’ll blow a gasket. If you turn into Basil Fawlty and rave about the British consul, you’ve lost humiliatingly.

Returning from the land of Om, I finally noticed a tatty notice in English on a pillar which alleged that if we wanted to get our documents back, we should photocopy them. Ah shit – the oldest trick in the book, the Duplicate Documents They Don’t Tell You About. Amazingly there was a photocopier and it worked. I quickly photocopied everything before it broke.

Back to sitting. Two nice girls asked me if I could change some money so they could work the passport photo machine. I did it and then thought… “Oh no! What about photos? Yikes!” The Passport Photo That Has To Be Precisely Correct That They Don’t Tell You About is a much loved late move in the Bureaucracy Game, I’m looking at you, USA. I was sure I’d had some passport photos taken a couple of weeks ago for something else, surely… I shuffled through my enormous rucksack with which I accidentally knock over at least one Magyar on every bus, and found… Three passport photos. Yess!

Back to waiting. 608. Lots of numbers beginning with 3. 610. More numbers beginning with 3. I looked around and realised that there were in fact two kinds of people in the Official Standard Bureacracy Game Waiting Room. Most were harassed non-Magyars, dressed either sexy-cute or smart-casual, recently shaved, haircut, staring at the digital scoreboard.

Some were Magyars, striding through importantly, wearing suits. One particularly fine gentleman was in a shiny grey silk suit, pink shirt, white contrast collar, cream-and-gold striped tie, with the jacket slung round his shoulders. Shit! I thought, realising what I should have worked out a couple of hours before.

Lawyers!

The implications were devastating. That means they haven’t separated out the Appeals from the easy-peasy-I’m-an-EU-citizen and there are LOTS of Magyars in England, so deal with me and get rid of me first. The mysterious numbers in the 3 series on the board are the ones who brought their lawyers. Hence the taxis skulking outside to take the important lawyers home. Shit! Shit!

Looking around with new eyes, there were lots of lawyers. One gent from the Gambia sat down and started barking fluent Hungarian into his mobile after gently explaining to his client in English what was going on. Then he started explaining to a fellow lawyer about how he was going to Vienna for a one day conference which was all paid for by some agency or other. Then he started a fascinating story about how a dentist in the north of somewhere had a big herd of cows and was actually paid in cows but before he clarified whether this was in Hungary, the Gambia or somewhere else, his client’s number came up and off he went. Both he and his client had come in some hours after me, I noted. They left before me too.

I sat. I wandered about. I asked whether I actually needed a passport photo. No, said the girl. Five fifteen, said the nearly stationary clock. OK. Now I was worried. There’s a particularly nasty late-game stand-by in which, if they haven’t got to your number before closing time, you have to come back another day and start again. I anxiously checked my diary: yes, I could ruin two more mornings this week if necessary.

Paranoia got too strong. I lost some Patient Waiting points by asking the information desk girl if they played the Closing Time move, but they didn’t. They just don’t let anybody else in after 6.00 pm. Slowly the OSBGWR emptied as the digital board rattled up through the 300s and in the 400s. A 627 flashed by and was gone. The 400s continued their slow parade.

Right, I thought, I know what’s going on. You’re playing the two queues system and you’re doing it badly. You’re putting the Appeals + Lawyers through before the boringly ordinary and easy EU citizens and that, as you should know, expert players as you are, is a Foul. You should at least have a quota for how many Appeals go through before waiting EU citizens and you know it.

It was late for calling a Queuing Foul but on the other hand, I knew I’d been accumulating Patient Waiting points and I should be able to do something with them. I went up to one of the girls who had been processing a different lot of people who was clicking through the digital numbers. Yes, she spoke English. “I wonder,” I asked with elaborate timidity, “if I’ve missed my number? I came in at 14.31.” She asked to see my ticket which meant she knew I had her: I showed it to her, 628, stamped 14.31.  “627 was quite a while ago,” I amplified. “You’re next,” she said and trotted backstage.

And I was. Ten minutes later I was into the Inner Sanctum with the booths and the bulletproof glass, in front of a very pretty girl with pink trousers and a cute layered hairdo with black underneath and bottle-blonde on top. In the time she could spare from flirting with the tanned lawyer at the next door booth who was sorting a footballer’s application, she input all the stuff, collected the photocopies, had me sign six or seven documents. Where’s the stamp, she demanded, perhaps hoping for a late turn of play. Nah. Very slowly I got it out of my purse and handed it over. Stamp stamp, sign sign, stamp. I read the card to check it had the correct details. Despite the tanned lawyer tilting back on his chair beside me, it did.

Hot plastic lamination – yess! A beautiful smell! I got the card (the other one comes later in the post.) Hah! I may have lost Rounds #1 and #2, but I narrowly won Round #3 and Round #4 is a knockout to me!

I won. Again. Hot damn, I’m good.

Bloody Foreigner – Bureaucracy Games #2

The following Tuesday I still had three weeks to complete the Bureaucracy Game and get the special card/document/stamp you have to have to avoid deportation or something. I’ve learned the hard way against the expert players in the UK, that when you have to play the Bureaucracy Game, it’s no good putting it off until the last minute. You need plenty of time so that you can play at your best with the champion players inhabiting whichever branch of the state you’re dealing with. Once you’re up against a deadline and they  know it, you’re doomed.

I only waited two months in the hope I’d be able to understand a bit more Magyarul. Ha! “Magyarúl nagyon nehéz” say the Magyars sympathetically when you tell them about your crazy plan to learn it, which means literally “Hungarian is very heavy”, but actually means it’s difficult. It’s complicated, is what it is, and they’re very proud of it and of it being non-Indo-European (Finno-Ugric, if you’re interested). So not even the numbers sound familiar.

Anyway, I followed my usual Bureaucracy Game strategy and gathered every document I could think of, got confirmation of where I’m living, teaching contract, passport etc etc yadda yadda. This is so worthwhile. I still remember the joy of watching the sad deflation of the little man with the dodgy toothbrush mustache and starched shirt in the Spanish equivalent of the Bevándorlási és Állampolgarsági Hivatal. Among the many documents I had brought him were two that were not mentioned on any list anywhere but were still completely essential. Hai! Yeah! I win, Mr Toothbrush Mustache, and you LOSE. He knew it too and my prize was the relevant card in record time so he could get rid of me and Forget.

With the light of battle in my eyes and a rucksack full of paper ammo, I headed for the correct bus. Bus #1, check, bus #2, check, Ujbuda Tesco’s, check, hello Bevándorlási és Állampolgarsági Hivatal – and yes, hooray, there were plenty of pissed-off foreigners hanging around, some black, some brown and quite a lot of them Chinese. Plus two taxis waiting by the side of the road which I should have recognised as a sign of trouble.

In I trotted to the first office, ignoring a sign telling me that holders of Type D passports should go somewhere else, on the grounds that if I was a Type D passport holder, I’d know I was, on account of having a funny Cornish-pasty-forehead and being a Klingon. Luck was with me – there was no queue for the information desk, although I was in the Official Standard Bureaucracy Game Waiting Room – about 50 bored people distributed around 70 very hard chairs in a striplit stuffy hot room, all gazing in despair at a digital noticeboard with numbers on it. Uh oh, I thought.

The nice girl at the information desk spoke embarassingly good English, as so many Magyars can, and told me that I needed a special payment stamp which I could only get from the Post Office across the road and asked if I had my Ehic card (European Health Insurance Card, if you’re wondering). By sheer good paranoia I did have it, as I carry it with my passport in case I’m in an accident. Or, as it turned out a few days later, have a stroke.

She gave me the essential Magic Ticket for the queue lottery (628) and when I looked, there was only 601 showing alongside several other sequences of numbers starting with 2s and 3s. OK, I’ve got an hour or two, I though in my innocence.

Across the road I twice completely circumambulated the large shopping centre, looking for the Posta. Various helpful Hungarians tried to explain where it was and I still couldn’t find it, until a girl at the Tesco’s information desk led me to it personally and I found it in a separate section only signposted with a toyshop. So well done, Tesco’s customer survice, you gained me some good points so I could win Round #3 of the Bureaucracy Game. Finding the Posta was their second try at their favourite Invisible Office gambit and might even have worked. Heh!

The nice girl at the information desk had written down the name of the special official stamp I had to get, so I got it, easy as pie. The whole thing had only taken an hour.

Back I trotted to the Bevándorlási és Állampolgarsági Hivatal, feeling optimistic. Back to the Official Standard Bureaucracy Game Waiting Room with the digital board and the numbers.

They had got to 603.

Bloody foreigner – Bureaucracy Games #1

This story comes before the Stroke Tales, but I didn’t have time to post it before I actually had my stroke.

I like being a Bloody Foreigner. I enjoyed being a guiri (means “stupid northerner”) in the south of Spain, though the Spanish are mostly courteous and hospitable and don’t let you know about that. They watch the antics of drunken expat Brits with astonishment and the lobster-red tourists likewise and occasionally take the piss in Spanish with elaborate subtlety. My Spanish was occasionally good enough to spot this and take the piss back, which was very entertaining. In Hungary now, my Magyarul (Hungarian for Hungarian, actually) is definitely not good enough to spot anything at all.

However what I really wanted to talk about with reference to my Bloody Foreignerness was my Bureaucracy Game with the Bevándorlási és Állampolgarsági Hivatal.

Which, as I’m sure you realise, is the Hungarian Office of Immigration and Nationalisation, address: Budafoki ut 60. I had to conduct some essential bureaucracy there, involving forms, probably a passport photo and a lot of documents so I could have the important registration card I need to do other stuff in Hungary such as get a tax number.

Yes, I looked on their website which seemed to be in Hungarian only, blocked by a very polite letter in English asking me to tell them how to improve their website which took me the devil of a time to get rid of so I could see the website itself. I tried Google Translate on some bits of it which produced the usual hilariously useless and wrong results. You can’t expect a computer algorithm to cope with an inflected language, particularly one with at least fifteen case-endings, including some called the Inessive, Delative and Superessive (me neither).

So I got the Addressive (sorry) and decided I’d do what I call a Reconnaissance in Force. This means I use a free afternoon to turn up in person with everything I can think of that I might need or that they list (that bit of the website made some sense and there were other websites that were helpful).

Obviously I don’t actually expect to get anything done: it’s just a scouting operation, the opening moves of the Bureaucracy Game.

So I got on a bus, got off it where I could see number 59 Budafoki Ut and found out from some very helpful Hungarians using my haphazard Magyar and their school English that in fact number 60 Budafoki Ut was three bus stops away on a different bus entirely.

Ho ho! Well done, Bevándorlási és Állampolgarsági Hivatal! Round #1 to you. Brilliant move with a witty touch. Bloody Foreigners have to prove their stamina by actually finding the place, in the Invisible Office gambit.

Another bus ride later I got off, ironically opposite the Ujbuda Tesco’s, crossed the road and found a sign saying “Bevándorlási és Állampolgarsági Hivatal” which was what I had in my notebook. Optimistically ignoring the lack of annoyed foreign people around, I wandered into what looked like an entrance with an enquiries window. A grizzled old veteran, clearly still in mourning for the Soviet era, scowled at me when I apologised for only speaking a little bit of Hungarian. He shouted “Zarva! Zarva!” at me which even I knew meant it was closed.

Of course it was! Grizzled Old Soviet bloke was right to be highly annoyed by my ignorance.Everybody (except Bloody Foreigners) knows that the Bevándorlási és Állampolgarsági Hivatal is only open in the mornings on Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays, only in the afternoon on Tuesdays and not open at all (except to students) on Wednesday. It was a Friday afternoon – what kind of madness made me think I could come in and Do Bureaucracy?

And Round #2 to the Bevándorlási és Állampolgarsági Hivatal. Another stunning use of the Random Opening Hours gambit!

My feeble riposte was to let my fragmentary Magyarul get more British by the second and take my time noting down the opening times which interfered with his enjoyment of his book. I annoyed him even more when I asked brightly (in Magyarul) if there would be anyone there on Monday who could speak English? There would be, apparently, if I understood Grizzled Old Soviet bloke correctly as he waved his arms and told me that they speak any language at all. Probably not Qechua or Glaswegian, I thought.

I have to admit that I didn’t do too well in my Reccy in Force. Never mind, I thought, there’s Round #3 next week when I have a free afternoon which remarkably coincides with the Bevándorlási és Állampolgarsági Hivatal’s opening time: Tuesday (Kedd) one pm to six pm. We’ll see, I thought.

Stroke tales – food, glorious food!

I was getting better in Kutvolgy hospital. The craziness of the first day was over and I was sleeping and waking, getting up, moving around very carefully because my right side still felt a bit not there and was numb, particularly to heat. I seemed to be doing an awful lot more of the sleeping thing – being anally retentive I started to time myself and discovered I was doing up to about 18 hours asleep in the first few days.

That’s about the amount a cat can sleep, by the way, if nothing more interesting is going on, which just shows you.

It took me a while  to notice the first major change. In fact it sort of crept up one me because the hospital food at Kutvolgy is… Well, it’s terrible. In a heartbreaking way.

I’ll give you the outlines. At 8 o’clock a nice nurse comes round with a big bag of rolls and some little packs of food. Healthfood like three slices of turkey ham, or three slices of completely flavourless cheese and some cucumber. Each patient got two rolls and a little pack. At 5 o’clock in the evening she does exactly the same. If you make the mistake of asking for a gluten-free diet (guess who?) you get two slices of “bread” that makes styrofoam look appetising.

The nurses and the doctors all wear bright white, by the way. It’s a caste thing and I didn’t have time to work out the rules, but essentially the whiter your clothes, the more important you are, and if you also wear a white coat, you’re a doctor.

The main meal of the day is lunch. Someone comes in with a big tray with two covered dishes on it. The smaller one contains some kind of soup – thin soup with veggies in it, usually, a non-negotiable start to most Hungarian lunches. This is dull but drinkable, especially if you got the floating carrots down quickly.

And then there was the main course. There was usually a lot of it, which was a mixed blessing, because it tasted awful. It was always overcooked. Occasionally it was completely unidentifiable, like the sort of bready loaf with some meat in it. Sometimes it was readily identifiable, as with the meat and two veg which I kept getting, although that doesn’t mean you could identify the meat. The veg was always mushy. Sometimes it got quite exciting: there was one occasional when my roomies got meat with sour cherry sauce, thick with cornflour. Awful. There was even tarhonya which is usually a nice kind of pasta with meat. Awful. How do they make everything taste like last weeks’ leftovers?

And yet, someone down in the kitchens was clearly trying. There were lots of different ways of serving it, though it all tasted pretty much the same. You never knew what you were going to get, in a boring way.

I didn’t really care, because a weird thing happened when I had my stroke: I completely lost my appetite and my consuming (in all senses) interest in food. It’s still just not there though I’m trying to remember to eat at regular intervals. Food also has a thoroughly nasty taste after a few minutes. Apparently this is a common side effect of stroke, which means it’s only a matter of time before some supermodel or starlet tries to induce a stroke to get the cool no-appetite effect.

But it wasn’t just me: my roomies and I bonded over the question of what would arrive for lunch and how awful it would be.

I puzzled over this and I came to a conclusion, prompted by some of the doomed television attempts to improve the food in our own lovely NHS. The ingredients were usually fine and the people cooking them not bad or evil people at all. They just couldn’t tell the difference between good food and bad food. They would make something revolting and think it was delicious. As they went about making their appalling lasagne they probably felt all warm and cuddly as they imagined the poor sick people eating it. Everybody laughs at hospital food, they’re thinking now as they stir, but mine is delicious and wonderful.

It’s an unsettling thought. At the moment, I’m one of them.

 

 

 

 

 

Stroke tales – ghost arms and nappies

It was probably the same day I arrived in Honved hospital, though whether it was before or after my amazing friend Dora arrived, I’m not sure. It’s all a bit mixed up for me. What I’m sure of is that at some point on that exciting Thursday 20th March, I became aware of myself again, a person wearing quite a lot of medical clobber including electric stickies, wires, a line going into my arm, another line doing something else, possibly blood pressure measurement. And a nappy.

Oh, I thought, I’m wearing a nappy. How sensible.

The invisible cat had… er disappeared by then, but I was still in the middle of a fight between the two halves of my body. The left hand side was exasperated. The right hand side was in a dreamy thrill, exploring how much my ghost arm could do. Which, thanks to my stroke, was quite a lot.

Although it still seemed attached at the shoulder, it could whizz around and stretch out. I knew there was another arm in there somewhere, a physical arm, but it wasn’t doing much, just lying there inertly like my right leg.

The ghost arm was much more fun. And yet for some reason, the spoilsport left side of my body insisted I had to find the physical arm and make it move.

Where was it? I looked down and felt a kind of shock, because it was lying there instead of waving around in space as I felt it was. I tried to move it. Nothing happened which was a pity, because my ghost arm was  moving just fine.

Not good enough, growled the left side of my body.

OK, I thought, feel for a difference. There was one. My ghost arm felt lighter and larkier. Underneath it was something heavy and difficult.

Quickly, I tried the underneath arm. My hand moved, the physical one. Oh good, I thought, now can I go back to the fun one?

No, said the left side of my body. Try again.

I couldn’t move the physical arm, but I was now getting interested in the feeling of having two arms one of side of my body – the left side had the normal boring number of one, so could be ignored. I tried the lighter one. Wild gyrations happened above the bed. I tried the darker one, consciously fitting my thoughts into the limb as if into a glove.

Ahah! It moved again.

For a bit I swapped between them and then somehow lost interest in the ghost arm as my physical arm came back to life. It didn’t move much but it moved and so did the almost forgotten leg.

I lay back exausted and contemplated the nappy. Was I ready to let go? Maybe. I certainly needed to go and I was far too tired from all the arm complications to ask for anything, even if there had been anyone to ask. Just to show off I moved my right arm and leg together a tiny bit; it was satisfying because after all that ghost arm hadn’t actually achieved a lot. I concentrated just as I had with my arm and felt a warmth in the nappy that was not followed by sogginess as I expected.

Great, an immense improvement on towelling nappies, I thought, as I dozed off

Tales from the stroke.

This happened towards the end of the two weeks  I spent in hospital, mostly at Kutvolgy korhaz. So I was getting physically a bit stronger, though  the fact that the two older ladies I was sharing a room with both spoke no English meant I could only communicate with big smiles and a few Hungarian words. We bonded over the godawful food, though.

She came in the middle of the night, probably two or three in the morning. There was a sense that she was a nuisance, certainly the nurse who received her gave that impression, She couldn’t talk though sometimes she would make “mamama” noises and sometimes she would hide her face on the pillow and sometimes she would make violent unco-ordinated movements. These meant she fell out of bed which the nurses seemed to think was deliberate.

At the time she arrived, the nurse on duty immediately tried to attach bed-rails, neither of which were the right size, so she compromised by putting the little bedside table in the way. There were four full beds in a room just big enough for them.

Sometimes she would sleep, sometimes she’d stare impassively at me, or the other women. They set up a drip for her, into which another nurse came and injected a dose of something I suppose was a sedative.

They knew her name, she had a bag of street clothes, but there was a sense that she was in the wrong place, waiting for a bed on a more high-dependency ward which was currently full. Occasionally nurses would come and give her commands or suggestions in Hungarian (her native language) to no obvious effect.

Later that morning, she fell out of bed again, then sat there until a strapping lad could come and give us a hand to get her back again. They hauled her around disrespectfully to get her back to bed in the cramped space, but her expression never altered: there was nobody at home, as far as I could see.

I went off for another CT scan and when I came back she had gone. I caught one glimpse of her, sitting in a wheelchair, being trundled along by the two young men in white, wearing only a hospital gown, her bag of street clothes gone missing. There was no expression on her face at all.

I wish I had been kinder to her. I wish I had felt able to support her weight when she fell out of bed until help could come. Aggie, one of my other roomies, did that, the most able-bodied among us despite terminal cancer.

I wish I had sat beside her, maybe hummed to her, maybe got something out of her apart from “mamama”. I wish I had had the gumption to ask where she came from, what had happened to her, despite not knowing the language . Nobody had a moment of kindness for her except Aggie, who supported her while she sat there staring as if the last thing she could have expected was to end up on the floor.

Of course I was afraid of her, sullenly and unconsciously. She was what I could have been. Perhaps…perhaps she’d had a stroke like mine but one that robbed her of everything, not just words but sense as well. One that destroyed her as a person. I’ve no idea, only the bag of street clothes said something like that might have happened. She didn’t seem old – perhaps early 60s.

I wish I’d held her hand.

More on that stroke…

I left some things out of my description of a stroke. For a start I left out the CT scan which they did as soon as they got me to Honved hospital. I don’t remember much of the trip there which I think is a pity, because I love blues and twos, flashing red and blue lights, beebaah, beebaah.  It would have been fun: sadly I think I was preoccupied with ghost arms and invisible cats at the time. At any rate I don’t remember much about it.

There I was, on a stretcher, wrapped up with blankets so I couldn’t move at all. I felt rather cosy. I looked up at the curve of the machine above me and thought, ahah, a CT scanner, maybe I am having a stroke after all? I recognised it from TV though not the particular angle. I stayed very still, feeling smug because they hadn’t noticed the cat which was a tortoiseshell like the very cute cat at home in Budapest, Cuki by name (pr. Tsuki, by the way).

Machine noises went, and out I came again. They unwrapped me a bit and moved me to a different kind of bed, wheeled me off. I did my best to help with the move. It was kind of exciting to be the centre of so much attention.

Which brings me to the point of this piece: at no time in the entire proceedings did the thought occur to me: ohshitohshit, I might die. Not once. The whole thing took place in a sort of vaguely benevolent puzzlement. I don’t think this was some kind of last ditch psychological defence: more the calmness of someone who’s been through this sort of thing and knows it will all be OK in the end.

Which when you think about it dispassionately was not at all true. It was a major physical disaster which could have killed me, though it didn’t (as far as I can tell.)

I still  feel remarkably calm about it. Yeah yeah, I had a stroke, what’s the big fat hairy deal? I’ll be better in a couple of weeks. I have completely irrational confidence in my continuing existence. Even nasty thoughts like “What if there’s an aneurysm in my brain and it goes again?” leave me unmoved, except in the rational sense. Rationally I know it’s a possibility; far more powerful is my feeling that I’ll be fine.

I assume it’s probably something to do with the haemorrhagic stroke being on the left side of my brain, traditionally the site of rational gloom and doom. And that accordingly my optimistic fun-loving right brain is doing most of the thinking work.

It’s rather nice though.

What it feels like to have a stroke.

There I was, teaching up a storm at a business in Budapest when I started to feel funny. Sort of not quite there. The English words that had been so easy to say fifteen minutes earlier, suddenly got difficult. I could hear it in my voice, a sort of mushiness. Then my right arm and right leg stopped obeying me. I didn\’t have a headache, could see perfectly well – but something odd was definitely happening.

Could I be having a stroke, I wondered.  I\’d seen the public service announcements that seemed quite hot on things like one arm and one leg having their own ideas about what would be fun to do. I\’d read a brilliant book called \”My Stroke of Insight\” by Jill Bolte Taylor which seemed to be saying the same things.

Nah, I thought. I\’m fine. This is just… a bit odd.

A deeper part seemed to be trying to get my attention. You are having a stroke, you twerp, it said.

Around then my relationship with words seemed to break down. \”I\’m very sorry,\” I explained to my round eyed students, \”I\’ll have to stop the lesson. I\’m having a stroke.\” I think I said more but I don\’t remember what, the words had gone.

I then spent a lot of time putting my pen in my bag. It took about eight goes to get my right hand to pick up my pen and put it in my bag. My right side sagged. I wonder what\’s going to happen next? asked a perkily independent part of me.

Ambulance men arrived and strapped me into a chair, then a stretcher. Interesting, said the perky part. They did things with tubes and needles.

I was much more concerned with what was going on inside. The right side of my field of vision was full of fascinating hallucinations: golden lists of words swirled by, numbers, splendid geometric shapes. In amongst it all, I felt a cat arrive and crawl along my right side.

Don\’t be bloody stupid, snarled my left side, it\’s just a hallucination.

The cat looked smug and curled deeper along my right side where a ghost arm had somehow liberated itself from its physical twin. The ghost arm took the chance to demonstrate some very interesting moves, the cat disappeared, while my left side told my right side to stop acting like a bloody fool.

I was in intensive care by now. Electric stickies decorated my chest and a snarl of wires, something went in a needle on my left side, my right side had decided not to work at all. At some stage while I had been concerned with ghost arms and cats they had taken all my clothes off and put me in a nappy.

I was quite happy. Ah look, I thought fondly as I blinked up at the vital signs moniter, I remember you when you were just a twinkle in a \”Star Trek\” designer\’s eye.

And then I went to sleep.