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.