Why I won’t be home for Christmas

Controlled chaos. I am living in, albeit temporarily, the juxtaposition.

For the last few years Tim has asked me what I’d like for Christmas. I’ve given the same answer: paint the kitchen. Two years ago he actually gave me a can of paint . . . but it wasn’t nearly enough to cover all the walls and as the year went on the wish faded along with the current paint on the walls.

Well, this year the wish will almost certainly be fulfilled—and while not for Christmas, I expect by February. Right now there is a parade of builders, an electrician, and a plumber spreading their dusty cheer across two floors in our London home, tearing down and/or building walls, rewiring several rooms so that when you turn on the light you no longer trip the circuit, and rerouting ugly pipes and replacing the boiler so that in fact the water is always hot and the shower has a bit of gusto. It’s all good, it’s just messy.

Case in point: last Friday afternoon Tim and I were both home for lunch. The kitchen has been alternately in use or off limits, depending on whether Pete (whom we’ve come to call Sparky) is drilling holes and pulling wires through ceilings. I suggested to Tim that we bring home a sandwich after running a few errands in town, and we did . . . only to find that there wasn’t a clean space in the kitchen to eat. Nor a tidy spot in either of the sitting rooms on both floors. The choice came down to one of the two semi-tidy bedrooms or the one semi-tidy bathroom—so you can see, there actually wasn’t much choice. Tim made some tea (we could manage the kettle in the kitchen but not much else) and we sat on the bed enjoying our lunch. Well, enjoying is probably a stretch—the spare bedroom is piled with glasses, dishes, and other bits and bobs from several other places. There was really only enough room on the bed for one adult to sit (which I took) and a bit of narrow standing room, which Tim occupied. Needless to say we didn’t pore over conversation or the lovely stuffed sandwiches from the local Italian deli; it was pretty much eat and run.

And run I will—we will—to the Isle of Wight for Christmas. There’s a coating of plaster and/or wood dust in every space in the house, even the topmost floor where no work is happening. I thought I understood gravity as a force that pulls particles down rather than up! We’ve told the woman who cleans to return after the New Year, and in the meanwhile to keep it from being completely unbearable Tim has occasionally dragged a mop across the floor while I randomly wipe down the kitchen table and two chairs so that we minimise the powdery white streaks on our usually dark work attire. We’ve not hung a single bauble by the chimney with care, although I have propped up the Christmas cards we’ve received so far just to remind myself it is in fact the season. (I think I may take them all with me.)

I don’t mean to sound like I’m complaining—in fact I’m thrilled that the work has begun and it will have an end, even if it’s closer to Valentine’s Day. And next year for Christmas I can ask for something shiny that looks lovely on me rather than the kitchen walls! Actually, my Permanent Husband to Remain did buy me a spectacular pair of earrings for my recent birthday, so he’s got a few years’ worth of chips pocketed.

I spent a wonderful birthday in Germany with family, beginning the day in Jandelsbrunn listening to the Regensburg Boys Choir; Tim’s nephew Ludo is one of the angelic voices who gave a concert the previous night that we attended, only to be treated with an encore at Sunday Mass. We also took a walk through the Christmas Market in Passau, where we found a lovely Saint Nicholas ornament for our internationally-dressed tree. Bavaria is cold and pretty; it was nice to experience just a bit of snow! 

We also walked to the spot where the three rivers—the Danube, the Inn and the Ilz--meet. I learned that from certain vantage points you can see the distinct colours—the brown of the “blue” Danube, the yellow-brown of the Inn, and the very dark brown—almost black—of the Ilz. There was Gluwein and schnitzel and a delicious Gruner Veltliner for me (a delicious, dry white wine) while Tim sampled a few of the local German beers and, with no surprise, approved! A really lovely birthday weekend all around, with lots of wishes from family and friends abroad waiting for me when I turned on the phone. To quote a very famous seasonal Capra movie, it’s a wonderful life.

And so I wish you all wonderful holidays and look forward to sharing 2014 with you in words and pictures . . . after all, you may be you wondering what colour the kitchen will be. 

Permanent Wife to Remain

It happened with such ease that I wonder in hindsight what all of the fuss was about. Yes, the 35-page form took hours to complete—and oddly enough I originally signed the wrong name (well, I’ve had my maiden name far longer than my married one) and had to re-print the page, wondering if the case worker would notice and think it odd. I did take great care to organise the required documents in good order, attaching the Documents checklist provided by the UKBA and ticking all the boxes to indicate what was clipped. Photographs were placed in a small, sealed envelope attached exactly as requested. It was a rather nice, neat package I delivered into the hands of the receptionist, after a very short wait for our number (208—at 10:30 am; makes you wonder what number they start at). For the rest of the process you’re known as that number, and monitors at various places in the office give you an indication of where you are in the queue.

I did have to be re-fingerprinted so that I could be checked against the current criminal databases while my application awaited consideration. Tim sat patiently in the waiting area—spouses are intended to come along or give written notice that is notarised as to why they cannot. At the biometrics desk I was told the wait for the return of my fingerprint check would be about an hour, give or take. (You may recall last time I waited four and then was told to go home because the systems crashed. So much for having paid a premium for a same-day decision!)

We seemed to move quite quickly on the monitors from Awaiting Biometrics Verification to Awaiting Consideration to Under Consideration—in fact I’d barely had time to transfer birthdays and other events from my 2013 diary to my newly-purchased 2014 edition when number 208 blipped off the Under Consideration list where we’d been idling for about 20 minutes with at least two dozen other applications. I only panicked momentarily—the blip could only mean two things—either we were swiftly processed or swiftly declined for my settlement request.

The walk to Counter 44 was short, and there were several of us gathering . . . I gave my number slip to the receptionist who matter-of-factly said that the application was successful and handed me a letter I should read, and stated that my residence permit would arrive in 10 working days. Done. Simples. In less than three hours I had indefinite leave to remain, no questions asked (well, outside the form of course, and the supporting documents covering wages, bank accounts, and other proof of marriage).

The settlement visa—really just a credit-card sized plastic card with a microchip holding my fingerprints and a face scan—would need to be delivered via courier. Same-day decision for your extra £300, but not the paper to travel out of the country (though the letter would have likely gained me re-admittance). Having missed the first delivery attempt the next day, I rearranged for a day I could work from home, and having not paid the additional fee for a certain time period I knew that it wouldn’t arrive much before 5 pm. Itwas closer to 2 pm, in fact. There it was, proof I had indefinite leave to remain . . .

Or not? The little plastic card has an expiry date in 2023. Hmmm . . . I sense an application fee for renewal will be required. I suspect, though haven’t been able to confirm, that as my passport will also expire in about that time that the two are somehow linked. That and in 10 years’ time I will look nothing like the embedded scan and would have a new passport photo taken as well.

This isn’t citizenship, friends; it’s just the right to remain to live and work in the United Kingdom. It does mean that I can stay of my own right, not tied to a specific job or even a specific spouse, though I do intend to hold on to the latter. Tim has become fond of calling me his Permanent Wife to Remain. It’s catchy. I like it.

B is for Bureaucracy

I Googled the definition: “an excessively complicated administrative procedure.”

I’m feeling a bit wrapped in red tape at the moment. While poised to have a minor procedure done at the hospital, I was notified—via post, on the Friday before the Monday scheduled—that it would be “unfortunately postponed,” and the date the NHS has chosen  later in November doesn’t suit me. I suppose I’m mostly miffed because I carefully planned my work and social calendar around the minor procedure going forward, knowing I’d need some time away from the office. I’d sent out a note to colleagues and friends, too, only to have the time away not materialise. With other irons in the fire for the rest of this year including the other wee bit of red tape I’m wrapping my head around—my immigration status—it’s not going to be easy to find another suitable time this year. Fortunately it’s not urgent and if it rolls into 2014 I will be fine – I’m just whining because I worked hard at choosing a period that suited me professionally and personally only to be told I’ve been rescheduled. Friends have suggested I go “private,” meaning pay a small fee through my private insurance (a luxury through my company) and just do it. I’ve decided to try to save the dosh and give the NHS another chance.

I am feeling a bit overwhelmed, but only just, with the impending settlement application, aka indefinite leave to remain. It’s not the cost—I’ve been saving up—but just the administrative ladder I’ve only started to climb. I booked a Life in the UK test at the local office. The test allows 45 minutes to get 18 of 24 questions correct. £50 (prepaid, of course). Immediate results provided. I’ve had the study guide for a few weeks now and will give it another read through before the test. I find it a bit funny that I get worked up over taking these tests—I suppose it’s natural, but I still get a bit jittery thinking about having to pass; what if I get all the questions about percentages and don’t remember them? Well, seven days later (and another £50) I can always give it another go.

I also managed to successfully work the system and book a “premium” appointment to submit my application for ILR and have a same-day decision made. The posts on the internet made the possibility of securing an appointment seem dire, with people logging on at midnight to secure appointments or paying premiums to solicitors to secure an in-person session, paying an additional £200 on top of the £300 the premium appointment already commands. (The alternative is to go via the post and be sans passport for months, or secure an appointment with a settlement-checking authority which also has a small fee but allows you to keep your original passport).

I also read about how to best complete the calendar (or not) to get the date range you want. The good: it only took me a handful of tries to secure a slot. The bad: it will likely be all day long. The ugly: it’s in Croydon.

OK, so apologies to those who have a warm place in one’s heart for Croydon, but having been to Lunar House before I can say it’s simply not a lovely place to spend a day. Service mostly feels abrupt, even when you buy a sandwich at the kiosk. The seating is uncomfortable, and there is generally quite a bit of waiting around as you move from one queue to another. For my £300 there should at least be a cushion and the BBC news to keep you from becoming agitated while you wait.

I just had a thought: when you go the Shakespeare’s Globe you can rent a cushion for a £1 as all the benches are wood. Business opportunity?

Having downloaded the form several weeks ago and had a chat with Tim about locating required  accompanying documentation, I thought I’d take a walk through the 35 pages to see how prepared I was. We’ve been dutifully collecting the documents we need to “prove” that we’ve been together the last two years, and then there’s the bank statements and marriage papers and payslips that show I’m not draining the country by using public funds and I can afford to stay . . . that’s the easy part, more or less (I bank electronically so have had to request previous statements, and we don’t get payslips anymore but we do have access to them online). The interesting part will come when Tim and I have to agree on when we became a couple, LOL. It’s not that complicated, but as we were friends for a bit while Tim was “showing me around London,” as he likes to say, the inevitable question of when did that change needs to be penned in and put to memory, just in case we’re interviewed separately in Croydon. I’d hate to get that wrong and walk away £1346 pounds lighter and with no visa stamped in my passport. (I really don’t think that would happen, by the way; we don’t look the type to be passing off a sham marriage.)

I dusted off my 2009 diary and looked for clues for that date. Don’t get me wrong—I do remember the weekend well, just not the exact date. (Tim doesn’t remember either.) I see Tim’s name scribbled on a few Fridays in February and March, along with dinners with friends and other social engagements. There are a few options, but I am settling on 27 February as something in my mind says it was not quite March.

I quite enjoyed the stroll back in time, glad that I kept the calendar. I don’t keep many things, but I held on to my diaries in the event I had to list the days I was not in the UK—I recall my first immigration meeting when I was told it would be good to keep track of all of my days away from the UK—you’re only allowed so many during your residency when applying for citizenship. One’s passport is a good record, but sometimes I can’t make heads or tails of those stamps!

Rain at the Welsh, church to right

That brief travel back in time found me looking at the date of my first trip to Boulogne, France, with Tim  in March of 2009. We recently took a return trip to buy some inexpensive French wine, have a stroll around town, and have a different view of the sea. We have a regular stopping point at the Welsh Pub, in the centre of town and steps away from the church of St Nicolas. It’s nice to sit outside, but on this Saturday afternoon it rained and we were happy to be dry and indoors sipping our rose and feasting on large bowls of moules. For the first time I can recall we saw a wedding at the church, and in a later stroll that day saw the bride and groom being photographed sur la mer.

Since we took the car on the ferry we had the opportunity to travel out a bit and see some of the neighbouring area. When buying postcards in Boulogne, Tim took note of one of the beaches that looked lovely—Hardelot plage—and on Sunday morning, owing to my desire to have a long walk on any beach, we found ourselves there. It was quiet initially, though by the time we were headed back to the car there were many more people and animals of all ages strolling with us.

Hardelot is a very quiet town this time of year—most of the hotels and apartments facing the beach were vacant, and there are no shops open along the stretch of sand—small wooden huts that probably sell glacee or drinks were shuttered. It didn’t matter; we were there to walk and relax and that we did, taking in kite surfers, kite flyers and “sand yachts”—low-seated plastic vehicles on wheels with a sail to scoot along the beach. There were even a few horses occupying the sand, which went on for miles, with us. I was amazed at the surfers, using rectangular kites strapped to harnesses around their waists, riding the waves on short surfboards with no foot binding. Everyone I saw was fit, and I could see why—when on land, the wind was pulling the surfers along with the kite as harness was still attached, and I could see how some of them had to fight to stay grounded!

We had a wonderful weekend—walking, relaxing, and eating at local brassieres we just wandered into (rather than researched). I’ll admit I wouldn’t recommend the hotel we stayed at—it was clean, and the petit dejeuner was quite nice with fresh croissants, yogurt, fruit, and good coffee—but it was a bit worn at the edges. The shower was set inside a very small tub that had a built-in seat making for very little standing room. Tim mentioned some loose springs in the bed, too. There are certainly other hotels in the area that are far nicer for just a few euro more.

On our return journey to England the weather suddenly became turbulent and we had to sit for a bit on the ferry while the wind shifted enough for the captain to get us safely docked. While waiting we had the delight of seeing a double rainbow. How’s that for a fitting end to a lovely weekend?

And, before I forget and while I’m in French mode . . . we said au revoir to Maggie, the Little Blue Peugeot Who Could . . . Almost. Well, to be fair she only let me down occasionally, but it was enough to not feel terribly confident in driving even on the less hectic Isle of Wight—if she even started (or didn’t stall). The car was purchased as an experiment to see how often we’d use it, and whether it was truly worthwhile to have when most of the time it would sit idly, sometimes for weeks. She proved to be a good little vehicle, hauling ropes and sails and ladders and even doors in her interior. But I wanted something to be used in the winter, and be reliable, and sadly Maggie wasn’t the one.

Meet Roux (French for redhead) . . . several years younger and with far fewer miles under her hood, I think she’ll prove a very reliable replacement. Maggie is off to auction, probably worth slightly more than the £200 the garage gave me to take her in part exchange. Roux the Renault is in fine shape inside and out, and she drives quite nicely. Most important, the Clio fits snugly into the small parking space in the mews. She’s had a few short outings and I suspect with Coh Karek spending her winter in the marina she will have a few more. There is so much to see on the interior of the Isle of Wight that’s not necessarily accessible by foot or bicycle or bus, and I’m looking forward to doing some of that exploration in the winter months.

Now I’m off to study for my test . . . do you know what percentage of the population of Great Britain belongs to England? J

How is beer feminine?

Well, OK, I’ve probably made some of my female friends angry with that statement, but let me explain . . .

I am diligently returning every other day to my Duolingo online account to learn basic French, and while I am picking up a few words and getting through some of the lessons, I am struggling to remember some of the rules, like biere being feminine (la bee-air-ech with that noise from the back of your throat) and sandwich being masculine, une sandwich. Or how the suffix of words changes depending on the noun—is it mange, manges, mangez, mangeons, mangent . . . depending on whether it’s tu, vous, l’homme, nous, ils . . . quel palabre!

All of this effort makes me fondly recall my wonderful literacy student, Moureen, when I worked for the Literacy Volunteers of America (LVA) while working in Passaic County, New Jersey. Moureen was a lovely, vibrant fifty-ish woman from Jamaica who had little proper schooling. Having been presented her first grandchild, she wanted to be able to read with her, help her with her homework, etc. I found Moureen’s willingness to go the the LVA to try to find her path to literacy courageous and admirable. She had to work hard to fit lessons and homework it into working, taking care of her home and her family (including as I recall a lazy husband) and babysitting her granddaughter.

We hit it off spectacularly. I had travelled to Jamaica many times in my life and so we had some common ground to start off the relationship. Moureen was also an extremely hard worker and appreciated my persistence with her pronunciation and spelling. She focused during our two hours each week, always attempted and often managed to complete the reading and writing assignments, and never, never gave up as exasperating as the English language can be!

Why is “oll” in doll and roll sound differently??  How can kernel and colonel sound the same and be spelled so differently? It’s just the rules, isn’t it? Silly rules that make adult learners tear their hair out trying to keep it all straight. We’d laugh at some of them, and she’d diligently write some notes down for reference in her book. And, occasionally, she’d slip up after a lesson or two when the word resurfaced.

I now feel her pain.

I haven’t thought about Moureen in a while, and it’s when I do that I feel sad that we lost touch a few years ago. I found it so hard to tell her that I was leaving New Jersey to come to England and so she’d need to find a new tutor after three and a half years of lessons with me. In those years we’d become friends, and we knew about our families and our ups and downs; we bought each other cards for birthdays and Christmas and Easter. We spent the first few minutes of most lessons catching up, but not too long because we both wanted to see Moureen improve. 

And she did. I was so proud of the essays she wrote and the fluency of the books we read together after years of study and practice. In fact, to this day one of my most proud moments of my life was being chosen as the Literacy Volunteer of the Year for Passaic County. It was an award that belonged to both of us—Moureen’s efforts to improve and my efforts and patience to get her there. The scores she received at each testing phase every six months always jumped a notch or two. I only recently came across the plaque I received; I had carried it with me from America to England because I was so damned proud of what it stood for. I did finally recycle it; I have the memories and no longer need the physical object.

Perhaps I’m also reminded a bit about Moureen because I am feeling that I will be challenged with my new primary school reading partner, a smiling, young girl in Year 3 called Isha. Some of her mannerisms remind me of when I first began reading with Joy—fidgety, unfocused—only she more so. We have for the first two weeks changed seats and books at least once in a 20-minute span, and while Isha prefers to sit near her classmates, it’s a huge distraction and I’m often trying to find ways to bring her eyes back to the page.

I will be patient. Isha does try, when she is focused, and will look at me after she takes some time to sort out a word, almost as though for acceptance, before moving on to the rest of the sentence. I nod and give a word of encouragement when she gets it right, or help her work through the sounds of the letters when she’s close but not quite correct.

The half hour goes quickly and she does give me a broad smile and a wave when she’s done—shades of Joy, who always had more energy than could fit in the room. With any luck I will be Isha’s reading partner for four years—enough time to see her improve and blossom into a strong reader. J'ai de grands espoirs!

Lessons, anyone?

I used to have a backhand. I suppose I still do, only it’s the wrong kind—the kind that gets more of its power from the right hand than from what should be the dominant left.

I am equally dismayed and challenged. I did take lessons a little over four years ago and for a couple of years, until it became too difficult to find a time when my coach and I could play and the skies would remain light enough. All of the courts he coached at in London were sans lights, so stretches of time in the year proved impossible to play. (Note to self: we’re approaching the season where, gasp, it is already dark at 3:30 pm BT.) I settled on keeping up my game without the weekly lesson, finding colleagues and more recently a regular partner to get in a game at least once a week. My current, slightly younger regular tennis mate and I are about equal in our skill level—when we keep score, it almost always ends within a game or two of each other. She knows my weakness; I’m not as fast as I’d like to be so the cross-court or drop shot are virtually always winners (though I do make a valiant sprint for it).

(I know her weakness, too, but in the event she reads this, I think I’ll keep it a secret.)

Where we play indoors we are often in the middle court watching others being coached. It’s what you might expect at 7 or 8 pm on a weeknight: the twenty-something men with big, powerful serves who grunt as loudly as any female pro or the lovely young things with all the gear and no idea, but hey, they’re giving it a go and looking good doing it.

After one recent session my regular partner suggested that we ask the coach instructing in the next court if he’d be willing to give us a lesson occasionally to improve our game. We’d both seen him coaching before, and I had a sense for his style—not aggressive, yet always gently pushing, pushing. We lingered, she asked, he agreed, and so this is where I find myself lacking at least one crucial stroke.

I have to say Kostas is lovely. He is small, compact, smooth in his game; quite good to watch as he has excellent form. He is equally generous with praise and evaluation (critique felt too sharp a term) on court, and friendly and conversational off the court. In the first lesson, which went by so quickly I was amazed, he analysed our grip, studied our main forehand and backhand strokes, provided some excellent tips, and at the end of the hour told us both we did well and should practice. And he smiled.

(To me that meant, well, OK, you weren’t rubbish and if you ask he’d agree to continue giving you lessons.)

Though slightly disappointed to find out that my backhand has been wrong for all this time, I buried the feeling and without hesitation suggested we do it all again in a few weeks’ time, after some practice. It was a few hours later that I wondered if I was throwing money at an impossible task unworthy of my dosh. There was so much new to remember—the correct “sweeping” motion of the backhand while learning to make my left hand the one that did most of the work; coming to the ball (as I have always had a tendency to be a bit behind, or too close to it), and the right time to not whack but swing through depending on the height and drop of the ball; the point, the pause, the follow-through.  I’m a bit tired just recalling it. And it’s not that I didn’t do some of that—perhaps not with consistency, or even noticing when I was not.

I couldn’t help but think that my first coach gave me a bit of a bum steer!  In hindsight I think that every coach has his or her own methods, and I know that I improved in the time I took lessons with him. That and he is a lovely Brit, a nice guy who always had funny stories and was quite genuine. Sometimes I miss that we haven’t stayed in touch but for the occasional exchange on Facebook (mostly me remembering his birthday or liking something he posts). He kept me interested in playing the game, and that counts for something.

My new sometimes coach, on the other hand, is a bit more formal, a former Davis Cup player for Cyprus. When he sees something he doesn’t like in my game, he stops, heads over to my side of the net, provides some feedback, and watches. Carefully. I try hard not to do that again.

At the end of the second lesson he was kind to say that he noticed we both had improved, and that it would take time for these were small but fundamental changes to become routine. I am heartened, so much so that I decide to book him for an entire hour for myself while my tennis partner is away on business. I know I will be exhausted and in a small way I dread the complete attention to my game—now, when he’s given my partner an assessment, I’m half listening and half trying out my own stroke, waiting for him to shout “next!” and know it’s my turn to step up to the T. I won’t get that opportunity when it’s just him and me. I am equally fearful of the time when I will have to show my serve. (Visible shudder.)

But I’ve decided you can teach an old dog new tricks, and I’m going to have a few more lessons and try to improve my game fundamentally. And while in the throes of that line of thinking (dog, tricks), I’ve also decided to dust off my extremely elementary French and practice that skill with a website called Duolingo, recommended by a colleague of mine who is also trying to get beyond the basic five phrases you use. I don’t know that I’ll stick with it—much like the tennis—but it feels like a good use of my spare time.

All this while I diligently study from my Life in the UK 2013 edition as I am just about three months’ shy of my visa expiring and will need to pass the test to stay in the country. That and complete the 35-page form and cough up £1346 should I be fortunate enough to land a premium appointment, otherwise only £1046 but then live without a passport for up to six months. I think I figured out how to “work” the online booking system to my advantage (thanks to some posts I’ve read and a bit of trial and error), so I’m ever so slightly more confident than I was previously that I may secure a date in Croydon in November or December ahead of having to go the postal route and say adieu to my passport and the ability to travel outside of Britain. (That said, I’ve never been to Wales so it’s on the table for a winter holiday possibility.)

Wish me luck . . . on all accounts!

Je suppose que c'est pourquoi ils appellent ça le bleu

What to do when the north of France has lost some of its romance?

Bring on the south of France, and particularly the Cote d'Azur, where the vineyards of luscious grapes that bring rose to the table dip and climb for miles. The view from anywhere above two stories is simply spectacular--fields of green against a gorgeous blue sky that doesn't have a match in the Crayola box; it's too perfect to replicate. Pale yellow and sand-coloured villas dot the landscape, often clustered in small towns. The scent of lavender just tickles your senses. 

Destination Saint Cyr sur Mer, holidaying with family-in-law in a lovely villa whose fig trees provided the perfect canopy for reading a book in the shade during the hottest hours and whose pool offered the right amount of cooling off. A short walk away the beach waited for when the day called for a stroll and a swim in the Mediterranean.

Tim and I didn't do much--that was the plan having had a wonderful trip to America that was filled with family and friends but as you would expect not a lot of down time. My plan was to sleep in, swim in the pool, have the occasional outing, eat well, sleep in, finish reading my current novel (a terrific story by Barbara Kingsolver called The Lacuna, which I highly recommend), swim in the sea, eat well, sleep in--you get the idea. I did want to see a few places nearby--nothing definite discussed ahead of time, though we'd intended to rent a car for a few days and see some of the French countryside.

And we did. Cassis, teeming with people on a Sunday that there wasn't a place to park the small Yaris anywhere but the very top of the hill that even for me was too far to head back to centre. A drive from Cassis to La Ciotat along the nine-mile routes des Cretes that I'll admit had me a bit nervous about looking over the side, where the drops were steep and the sights breathtaking.

 There was also Aix, where we had a family outing to see the Matisse exhibit and have lunch at an outdoor brasserie on cours Mirabeau, just down the road from the Cathedral. The cathedral is a beautiful national monument that has roots back to the fifth century and is said to have been built on the site of a temple dedicated to Apollo. And there was a short hop to perhaps the most picturesque of all of our journeys, La Cardiere, a small town with winding, narrow streets of cobblestone with quaint shops and a very lovely restaurant, Le Regain, where we had had dinner.

I think that it was the first time, perhaps ever, that every meal on holiday was al fresco. Breakfast was on the porch where the sun hadn't yet arrived, a perfect spot for morning coffee. Fresh baguettes and croissants were bought each morning by the person who happened to get up first. Lunches of cold meats and cheeses, inspired and interesting salads by our hostess, and the occasional bottle of rose were simply lovely. By dinner time the mozzies were also ready to feast, yet with the right bit of citronella and those funny green coils (along with a dab of DEET on the arms and legs) it was positively blissful to be out of doors--grilled prawns, roast chicken, and even pizza from the local place found its way to the table. And yes, more rose from Provence, please!

One of my favourite late afternoon days was sitting in the square of Saint Cyr with the Statute of Liberty--yes, you read that correctly--standing over us. The sculptor, Frederic Bartholdi, donated the gilded replica to Saint Cyr. It's hard to find out why, even on the internet; in one web page I read that it was actually donated by a local businessman who acquired it from Bartholdi.

The square is perfect for relaxing with a glass of something (more rose, s’il vous plait) and peoplewatching. There were no American or British accents around us; this is a decidedly French spot for holidays! I didn't mind; even though my French is quite poor I can pick out a few words, toss a few phrases in greeting, and otherwise be quite blissfully unaware of the conversations around me.

  

What's not to love? Very little, though one or two disappointments. The beach near us was not as pretty as I'd imagined, having had this grand, dreamy idea about the Mediterranean shores, and nearest our villa it was shingled (aka pebbled) and a bit rocky to enter and emerge from the sea. There was simply no way to be elegant about it: every man, woman and child stumbled a bit before diving in or out! Yet the water was warm and lovely, and the waves just enough to keep the children happy. Me too.

We did manage to lose our way a few times, too; signage not being wonderful, "touts directions" didn't always take us where we wanted to be. It did give us an opportunity to see the seedier site of Marseilles when our GPS didn't provide quite what we expected, and I suppose given it was broad daylight and we did wind up where we needed to in the end, it was only a minor detour. We didn't spend much time in Marseilles but in the car, and to and from the airport, and I expect there are things to see that may bring us back there.

I would like to go back, perhaps be more adventurous the next time when my body and mind need less repair and when the weather is cooler where traveling around takes less energy. This taster was a lovely way to be introduced to the south of France and has whet my appetite to see more . . . who knows, I may unearth my language tapes and learn a bit more than Je nais parle pas Francais!

A bientot!

There's no place like . . .

I think at a certain point all “expats” give pause when someone asks them where “home” is.  It’s a different question than “where are you from?” and a bit more daunting to answer when you’ve been away from the place ”where are you from” for more than just a year or two. When does someplace else than where you’ve lived most your life become home?

I don’t know the answer; I do know that I went back to where I’m from recently, and it sure felt a bit like home.

I was most anticipating the warmth. The heat. (Even the Brits have been largely unhappy with the weather during the summer season, though we are now in the throes of a proper summer.) The forecast was ready to deliver—for ten days the lows would be what London generally sees as highs and the highs would be just a shade under triple digits (F) – something about 36 but not quite 40.

I was also eagerly awaiting a few solid days with my family—it had been 16 months since I’d last seen my two sisters, and closer to two years for my brother in Texas. There is no substitute for the warmth of a long hug, or the sight of dancing eyes and a wide smile after sharing an old sibling story. And that’s only the half of it—also planned were opportunities to see some other relatives and friends in New Jersey before driving south and spending time with Tim’s family, whom he hadn’t seen in four years.

We didn’t let the fact that we couldn’t check in online with United and didn’t have seats together start the trip off on the wrong foot—easily rectified with a smile to the young woman to my left in row 41, traveling alone and willing to relocate two rows down to an aisle seat I was assigned. Three movies and two magazines later we were collecting a car and heading to Harrison.

Me, Robyn, David

The best I can describe first seeing Robyn is like a minor thrill—the heart beats slightly faster, you feel a bit giddy, and you’re smiling ear to ear. It doesn’t last long; it settles into something that’s like you were never separated. Robyn and I talk/chat/text/something just about every day of the year, but it’s far better over a glass of wine or a cup of coffee within three feet of each other’s eyes.

Seeing David after a longer separation was slightly different—slightly less giddy, a bit more poignant; you don’t quite realise how less substantial email exchanges are to physical presence until you are there, in the same room, laughing at a joke or trawling through photographs that aren’t on a screen, but tactile, substantial in a very different sense.

The first few days are a haze of food, wine, and conversation at various diners (well, just one, but the best on in Jersey called Tops), pizzerias (something I always anticipate coming home for) and restaurants in various cities and crossing two states. Vacations (aka holidays) are often centered around food and family, and for me this time was no exception. I fully anticipated that I would eat more, eat differently, and have no regrets. Breakfast out, complete with bacon and hash browns? Bring it on! (I’ll confess to having relapsed to Greek yogurt on a couple of mornings.) Portion control? I’m on holiday! (I could never eat all those hash browns even when I lived in the US.)

With Barbara, Jimmy in background!

Our first night was a real treat—a home-cooked meal at a dear friend’s gorgeous apartment not far from our hotel. David and Robyn and Jimmy were joining us, a reunion probably ten years in the making as David hadn’t seen Barbara in that long. Barbara always has the most interesting and delicious nibbles—wasabi gouda; Mary’s Gone Crackers organic pretzel sticks; spicy hummus; the list goes on! Jimmy brought a whopping tray of crunchy, juicy jumbo shrimp he prepared and a fabulous cocktail sauce for dipping. And we hadn’t even started dinner . . . delicious chicken with another raft of sides to delight us.

And oh how we chatted the hours away—I was convinced I’d be shattered by early evening as my body was still thinking plus five in hours, but the time simply flew . . . and that’s how a lot of the time away went.

My desire to have what Tim would call “proper” pizza came from an unexpected and delightful source—Brooklyn. Having decided to spend the day together and (my) wanting to venture into New York, Jimmy suggested the “Brooklyn flea” which is a well-known market for its eclectic stalls and food tents. Jimmy likened it to Portobello Market where we visited when he and Robyn came to visit when I first moved to London. We drove rather than taking the subway, which was a real thrill for Tim who managed a few photos while on the Brooklyn Bridge. The market didn’t disappoint, but it was a hot day and after a bit of walking and window shopping we were inclined to find a place inside with a bit of AC (air conditioning) to have lunch. Just off DeKalb Avenue there are lots of pizzerias to choose from, and we backtracked to find one Jimmy had spotted earlier, called Graziella’s. We ordered some wine and two 16-inch pizzas—the classic margherita and one with prosciutto and mozzarella. Verdict? Well, I don’t think you can get a bad slice in Brooklyn if you stay away from the chains, and this was “proper”!

I was in slice heaven. Tick, one important trip task done!

We found our way back to Manhattan and strolled a bit along the High Line, a mile-long elevated walking path from Gansevoort Street to 30^th Street along Tenth Avenue that opened just two years ago. It was crowded with strollers like us, but well worth the views! With no real plan we opted to stay in the city for drinks at Frankie’s, a favourite of Robyn and Jimmy’s, and eventually found our way to a table indoors just steps from the open windows along Hudson Street. Another delicious Italian meal—I had the grilled calamari—and another memorable day back home.

Sunday was the big event—well, the biggest gathering to be sure—lucky 13 for dinner at (yet) another Italian restaurant, this time in Bayonne, to see my sister Debbie and her family. We’d popped in on them a little earlier in the day, and Danny and Tim took a walk to the baseball diamond where he plays and to see the river while Debbie and I caught up a bit. Most of you know that Debbie is bravely undergoing medical treatment and this trip for me was as much about seeing her as having some time away, so the time together was important to me, and really wonderful. (I’d love to post a photo of the two of us with the lovely Alyssa, but I don’t want Debcham to be made at me so compromised on a photo with me and Alyssa!) It was nice to catch up with all of Debbie’s family—all so grown up now, and even Danny is as tall as me!

With Alyssa

The prize (and appreciation) for coming the longest way—on a Sunday, in the summer, when the traffic is horrendous—hands down goes to Regina and Pat. I hadn’t anticipated seeing them—it is a brutal drive in the summer where everyone is either heading to or coming back from the Jersey Shore, where they live (in a very nice area, nothing like the reality show)—so to have them join us was marvellous.  Judy and Carroll were great fun to catch up with, too, as ever. Tim chose to bring wind-up “Royal Racers” for Judy, funny little wind-up dolls of HRH and Charles, which were a hit. (Judy is an Anglophile Extraordinaire.)

While Debbie was slightly disappointed in the dinner and the venue—our private room was “shared” with a group of rather loud gents, and the food in her opinion was not up to its usual standard—it was a wonderful evening with a little bit of musical chairs to have a chance to talk with everyone, and lots of those long, warm hugs that you just don’t get over the internet.

The next two days found Tim and me either at Tops catching up with David, at Debbie’s, or at the place that will always be the place for eggplant parmagiana, Nino’s in Harrison. David joined Robyn and Tim and me for our last dinner of the trip together, and I am pleased to report that Mr Nino did not disappoint! The recipe is the same, and it is still the best eggplant parm I’ve had anywhere. Now, I will say that our little neighbourhood joint, Trattoria Sapori, at Newington Green in London rivals . . . perhaps it’s just the fact that Nino’s is where it is, where Robyn and I had many a dinner and conversation, that makes the eggplant parm there above all others.

Robyn and Tim at Nino's

The first half of the journey home was coming to a close, and the hugs even more heartfelt. David was off, too, back to Texas while Tim and I were driving south to spend two days in Cape May. If you witnessed the long goodbye in the parking lot between Robyn and me, you’d have felt the love. Truly. I think it took me a while to get over that; I don’t think I even spoke much for a bit—Tim, ever the perceptible gent, knew, and understood.

Revisiting Cape May after a five-year absence for me was, well, a treat. I was anxious to show it off to Tim, but not convinced he’d share my enthusiasm for the sandy beach, the pretty Victorian homes, and the pedestrian mall filled with shops and restaurants. With only a day and a half there it was more of a taster, and while it was hot and humid we did stroll down the main streets where the B&Bs sit one after another in pretty Victorian splendour with wide porches and lots of gingerbread. I was happy to be walking along Hughes Street, my favourite, and Jackson Street, where I’d stayed so many times before and this time, too. I chose the Carroll Villa Hotel because I knew the breakfast would be lovely—the Mad Batter restaurant is well known—and it is nicely located a half block from the ocean and connects to the pedestrian mall. The room—like most in the area--was small but nicely appointed, and the bed stood high enough off the ground to make me hop up just a bit to climb in—just like in 1882 when it first started accommodating guests.

The ocean was cold to me—Tim used the word “bracing”—so while he went for a full-fledged swim (I only walked along the shore and up to my calves) I sat on the beach and soaked in a bit of sun. I reminisced about the time Robyn, Debbie and I took a girls’ weekend and stayed at the Southern Mansion, and other trips I made solo on early mornings to sit on a bench with a good cup of coffee and watch the sun rise.

While this was a trip about family, it did allow me a few indulgences to see some friends, and we were so happy to have dinner at the Blue Pig Tavern, in Congress Hall, with my high school “buddy” Jill and her husband Mike. They made the drive down – about 95 miles – to catch up.  There’s something that transcends distance when you know someone 30-odd years; you tend to think less about how long it takes and more about just getting there to spend time together.  What a wonderful time we had, and the dinner was quite good, too. Outside of getting a few mosquito bites from dining al fresco, it was a perfect evening.

Jill and me at Congress Hall

I think Tim must have enjoyed Cape May—he did buy the tee shirt! Not one to collect too many things, I did buy a lovely oblong glass dish with a trio of silver starfish at one end as a little treasure of my trip. When I lived in New Jersey my home had quite a few trinkets from the shop, Mariah’s, but I had left them all behind and wanted something to have as a reminder. It now sits on the kitchen counter in Cowes, my new seaside home that has little in common with Cape May except the glittering water . . . and perhaps the sea-inspired tchtochkes you see in the high street shops. Both places make me very happy.

The last few days of our journey were spent in Virginia . . . and on the Isle of Wight.

Let me explain. Tim (and I now) have family in Chesapeake and Virginia  Beach, and while crossing the Delaware on the Cape May-Lewes Ferry he spotted a map of Virginia that showed the Isle of Wight . . . which is coincidentally where Cowes is; clearly where the colonists borrowed the name from back in 1628! When we arrived in Chesapeake to warm hugs and a delicious cold supper (recipe for the curried chicken borrowed), Tim asked if we could take a trip to see the IoW, and one afternoon we did just that, finding a quaint area that has towns called Smithfield (akin to the meat market in London) and Windsor (no explanation required). Smithfield is famous for its hams (though I think that’s a decidedly American thing), and there is even a little museum that has the oldest ham . . . the rest is really lovely, trust me!

In front of the museum in Virginia

We sent postcards to our England Isle of Wight friends, one who said she was surprised by the card (we live across the road from each other in Cowes) until she saw it was from Virginia, USA. It was a delightful, unexpected find for us while down south.

I must say I do think E&P have done well in choosing their new home: on a lake (complete with a paddle boat), in a lovely community, and with a garden whose hydrangeas rival the ones we have in London that I enjoy so much. The house is filled with light and space, primarily stretching out on a single floor except for an office up a few stairs filled with Pat’s memorabilia of his years of service (including a letter from President Obama). It is filled with wonderful pieces of furniture and art from the places they lived while Pat was in the service.

Tim's first hot dog at a baseball game!

There were a lot of wonderful moments with E&P: leisurely breakfasts over coffee, sharing stories of time past; Tim’s first baseball game where Pat provided the commentary to teach Tim a bit about the game; seeing Kat and her lovely daughters and swimming at Virginia Beach; a drive to the nearby base to see the old fighter jets; relaxing on the deck watching the ducks swim by. It was a much-needed winding down for our mid-year time away from the demanding world of work and the faster pace of simply living in London.

I’ve no doubt forgotten some highlights . . . even now I’m looking at photographs and recalling how nice the whole trip was, top to bottom, and how I have been momentarily sated of my “things I miss about home” like pizza and baseball and swimming in the ocean. I will never not miss my family; that can never be slaked. Technology fortunately provides some reprieve—we’ve checked that we all have each other’s Skype names and can use the app on our smartphones, and there is still texting and email that is generally instantaneous, as long as one remembers the five-hour difference in our days and nights.

So if I slipped on a pair of ruby slippers, clicked the heels together and said “there’s no place like home,” where would I be transported?  

I’m thinking it’s a multi-journey trip that can’t be booked online.

Five (and counting)

I recently hit a milestone worth sharing–my fifth year in England. It was on the 26th of May in 2008 that I boarded an overnight flight to London, 61 pounds of luggage in hand. Within hours of landing I was settling in to my first “foreign” residence—an apartment hotel in the Barbican section of London—and then going about doing the necessary things to begin life in another country: getting an Oyster card (the equivalent of a Metro card), buying a mobile phone, opening a bank account and getting a debit card, and figuring out how to get to the office the next day. There was no time to waste: my new work life was set to begin on the 28^th!

I am amazed that five years have passed. Then again, when I think about where I’ve travelled, whom I’ve met, and what I’ve accomplished, well, it’s been five years crammed with wonderful things. I thought I’d stop to think about each of the five years and my fondest memories of them—no research, just what’s off the top of my head. Here goes.

2008 was the year I met some wonderful people who I am happy to call friends. Having worked on a few projects with the England-based team I’d already known quite a few people who were to then become my colleagues, and some of them I counted as friends too—it made the transition far easier, I think. In the first several months of being here I met the women who are now affectionately known as The Pizza Club—Leah, Taron, and Claire along with former and now once again office mate Kelly. We’ve done so much together, but our quest for good pizza is probably the thing that keeps us meeting up regularly. And among us in the last five years we’ve been to three weddings—our own—all here in England.

It was also the year that I realised that I could—would—travel to places I’d not have imagined I’d go to when I lived in America: Kenya in 2008, and in later years Morocco, Sri Lanka, and Vietnam. There was something about being in Europe that made faraway places seem more approachable.  My eyes were opened to a larger world, and my new friends—including my dashing sailor—influenced quite a bit of my travel plans; outside of a solo trip to Kenya I was experiencing these places with them.

It was no doubt the year I fell in love with what has become my new home. On weekends I’d often get up early and take a bike ride down Portobello Road, or walk across one of the many bridges, take in the view, and pinch myself that I lived in London. It didn’t seem real, and yet I’d managed to put it all together and get oriented at work, find a flat, make some friends, and settle. In the first year I’d no assurance I’d be staying—I had a one-year work contract and a storage room full of furniture in New Jersey for when I returned—and so I was determined to experience it all and enjoy it in 12 months. In the summer when it’s light out until 9:30 pm I would find myself looking for something to do in the 4+ hours after work so as not to waste the day—museums, walks, neighbourhoods, shops, anything to make the days full. (Thankfully I’ve settled down now and realise I didn’t have to always be doing something, LOL.)

And it was the year I invited visitors and proudly showed them around London—or sometimes it was them showing me! I’d purposely chosen a two-bedroom furnished flat to accommodate guests and encouraged them all to come to England while I kept the place—probably just for a year as it was far more than I should have been spending in rent.  And what a treat to have friends and family come. I was still learning about what to see and do in London, and it was great to be exploring some of it for the first time. I still have some favourites—Covent Garden, the British Museum, Tower Bridge, Bloomsbury.

Mirepoix the Cat made her way across to England in November that year; I had to leave her behind while she waited out the six-month quarantine period in America to assure the UK that she did not have rabies, which is practically non-existent here. I remember so clearly the day the service brought her to my door and I opened the carrier—she slinked out, low to the ground, and walked slowly around the perimeter of the room, once, then again. I picked her up to show her where the litter tray was—in another room—and then put her back down and she promptly hopped up on the couch and stared straight ahead, giving me no notice. She barely moved from there day and night. On her third day she’d forgiven me for leaving her behind and making her take the arduous journey in climate-controlled cargo, and finally leaped up on the bed to settle in for the night with me, just like old times.

A short year—just seven months—but 2008 was packed with wonderful things.

Perhaps the most unexpected of events happened in 2009—I fell in love with a blue-eyed barrister. In the previous year Tim was a semi-regular friendly companion of mine for exploring London. We’d met in October of 2008 to arrange some time for when his cousin (my dear friend) Karyn was coming for a visit. Still new to London, I was happy to find someone who had a few of the same interests as me—willing to go to the opera or try a new restaurant—things that are more interesting when done with a companion. It was a lovely friendship—I felt like I could tell Tim anything (and trust me, I did) and he was a wonderful listener.  Several months of occasional outings blossomed into a courtship that I’m not sure either of us expected when we first met several months before to discuss Karyn’s itinerary over a coffee. 

I gave up my flat, moved from west to north London, and re-settled with Mirepoix into a “relationship.” I hadn’t acquired much while living on my own—books and CDs shipped from home, a few more articles of clothing, and small items to adorn my first furnished flat. In two carloads I was transported into a wonderful new life that, when I pause to think of how it all came to be, still surprises me.

2010 was the year that I fulfilled a dream—to have a place near the sea.  Now living the life of a sailor’s partner, we spent a few weekends in Cowes and I found it delightful. I’d asked Tim to show me the towns on the sea that were easily accessible to London as I started to think about a place where we could relax and enjoy some weekends. No matter what place I saw, none had the same feel as Cowes; the high street is filled with lovely unique shops, and there is a long stretch to walk along the sea and a pebble beach that attracts families in the summer. It is quiet and pretty, and in the off season Cowes has a romance all its own where you may be the only person walking along the parade watching the sun set.

I never grow tired of it—the long walk west to Gurnard, or a trip to East Cowes to have lunch al fresco in the pub that overlooks the marina. I can sit and watch the sailboats glide by from the window, a slice of The Solent in view, or head up to the roof terrace for a wonderful view across to Portsmouth. I have slowly, carefully, filled the small house with furniture, some books from my London collection, and lovely art, all with just a slight nautical touch, and we’ve had crew come and go and come again on racing weekends, many whom have become good friends. It is a place of serenity, of comfort, this home away from home. I am so glad to have it, and truly enjoy sharing it, mostly with the blue-eyed barrister.

Coincidentally the day I received the keys to Harbour House was two years to the day of landing at Heathrow—27 May.

I have a postcard that Tim sent me that says Married in 2011. It was a wonderful, small ceremony at Stoke Newington Town Hall that gathered my new friends from England with my new family and my own family representatives, Robyn and Jimmy, for the afternoon of the second of July. Tim wanted it to be the Fourth, coinciding with that famous American holiday (which would also make it nearly impossible to forget), but in 2011 that would have been a Monday, so we settled for the Saturday before. The string quartet was found at my friend Taron’s wedding in March. One of my favourite moments was an impromptu dance in Tim’s arms while they played the intermezzo from Cavalleria Rusticana—give it a listen. It will always bring me a bit of joy, those moments.

Our honeymoon in Sri Lanka was the icing on the cake, of course, capping a perfect year. I fell in love with the beauty of the country and the warmth of the people. I can honestly laugh out loud thinking about our trips in the tuk tuk with our young guide Lal who managed to arrange anything we asked, and be an exceptional host. He was proud to show off his country, and we benefitted; I remember how he beamed showing us the wild elephants just off the road and the alligator not far from our resort. I was a little nervous on both occasions, yet glad for the experience.

And it was the year I retired the maiden name for my spiffy new married one . . . yes, well, I know a few of you are thinking she’s been there, done that before . . . but my passport always had the same surname until 2011. It took me a little while to get used to the change—I still occasionally introduced myself with the name I’d been rather used to—though now the slip is rare and the excitement of being Mrs is still there.

Last year, 2012, was a huge year for Britain—it was the year of the Queen’s diamond jubilee, and of course the Olympics and Paralympics Games hosted in my new resident city of London. What a year to be an expat! Of course faithful blog followers (LOL) will remember my brush with the Duke of Edinburgh, Mr HRH, at a Bar Yacht Club anniversary dinner. Tim had the honour of meeting Prince Philip and showing him around. Luckily our table was placed perpendicular to the head table so we could all watch the Duke laugh and chat. He gave a wonderful, funny speech and was delighted to be invited as the Admiral of the Fleet.

Then on the 25^th of July I stood proudly and waved the Union Jack as HRH The Queen came to Cowes to dedicate a plaque in honour of her diamond jubilee. I was thrilled to see her walk down the parade toward the plaque, which my friend Kim and I were standing in front of, behind a barricade but only feet away. The Queen leaned in to accept a posy from a young girl standing inches from me. I gawped, and then came to my senses and managed to take a photo or two. The local County Press for the Isle of Wight proves it—here I am snapping a piccie of the regal Elizabeth. She is absolutely lovely in person, and I was glad that Kim suggested a 7 am start (for a 10 am visit); she was great company for those three hours waiting and we both have fond memories of the day.

And how special to go to the Olympic Park and cheer on the Paralympians for the swimming finals! How fortunate for me that my friend Kelly had a spare ticket, having done all the work to go through the lottery and secure hers! Watching these athletes—many with a missing limb, some being wheeled to the edge of the pool—race for a medal brought mixed emotions of feeling proud of them in recognising their heroism to compete, and sheer joy for the winners. I think, I hope, that the exposure that the Paralympics gained this year will carry on.

Tim and I were lucky to go to the Olympic sailing in Weymouth (thanks David), another wonderful memory of the year. How special that was to me; who knows when the Olympics will again be in my “neighbourhood,” and so to have had the chance to see an event and be part of the experience is perhaps a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

On a sad note, 2012 was the year we lost Mirepoix the Cat, my Girly Girl. She had been my faithful companion for almost 23 years, having rescued her from the Teteboro Animal Shelter when she was just four months old. She was a treasure, and I have so many fond memories of her. When she was young  you could toss a small soft ball at her and she’d bat it back with her paw in perfect precision, or carry it back in her mouth to you like a dog would. She was endless fun, and wonderful company; a warm bit of fur at my side when I was feeling under the weather. She and Tim got along well--in fact she moved in ahead of me as a test to be sure that Tim could survive his cat allergy!

I miss her enough to not want to replace her; not just yet. Tim and I still will walk into our home and say “meow” as she was often awaiting our return home, until she became too old /deaf to care! The Girl.

And what of the first six months of 2013? Well, top of the list has to be finally getting the urticaria under control and feeling right with the world again. There was a wonderful little wedding we went to in March . . . most certainly a special occasion to have my dear friend Leah--an American I met in England--marry the handsome Aussie Andrew. The Routemaster bus ride will always be a fond memory!

I have to admit I let my five-year milestone slip by somewhat quietly. I thought it was lovely that Tim’s mum raised a toast in my honour when we recently visited her. It is truly a remarkable event to me, having not expected a future anywhere other than America. For the anniversary I thought I’d make a splash at work, bring in some cakes (which is how the population seems to celebrate events) and maybe have some drinks . . . yet in the end a part of me preferred to keep it to myself, to recognise it from both a personal and career perspective, and smile about my good fortune.

So what’s next? Saving up for my “indefinite leave to remain”! Having visited the Border Agency website I now know that I have to (a) take a “Life in the UK” test to prove my literacy before 19 December; (b) save up enough dosh to pay the piper (currently at a smidge under £1500 for in-person service) and (c) collect those documents that prove that Tim and I have been true Mr & Mrs for the last two years. (I was warned about these when I received my spouse visa.) We had a slight panic when reading the guidance for the settlement form when I realised we were short one document; Tim quickly sorted it by having me jointly responsible (ahem) for the Thames Water bill.

I think he’d like me to stay, then.