Resilience

I have a dear friend who in less than three years has lost a sibling, a child, and a parent.

I wonder if that made you take in a bit of breath; I know it would for me. It is a bit overwhelming to even think that much sorrow could happen to a person in such a short period of time.

Most of us have known loss, and loss that is close, painful, and deeply sad. The anniversary of my mother’s death only recently passed, and even though it was 16 years ago I remember it all quite well and I am still sad at not having her. I think she’d have liked visiting London, and I know she’d have loved Tim. And the loss of a spouse, even years later, still has a sombre resonance. Not every day or every week, but now and then, gently reverberating with a note from an old friend or some event that drops a reminder at my feet to pick up, pause, and then replace back into memory. It’s a very different feeling now—not raw, loud, and persistent; just slightly heavy, a bit muted. The gift of time, no doubt, has lightened the burden.

But this post isn’t meant to be about loss, but rather more the title. When my friend lost her father, I thought to myself, how is that she is managing, having yet another significant loss in a short period? But then I think, I know—she has resilience. I admire her at the same time I feel for her; even with all the support, it cannot be easy, particularly in the quiet moments we have with our own thoughts. Yet I think I know her well enough to say that she’s not putting on an act of courage; she has found enough strength to sustain her and been able to, once again, recover.

And yes, she has a wonderful partner, someone who has been with her during each heart-breaking event. She has good friends, of whom I’d like to count myself one, who don’t have to say a lot but are just there to have a coffee and a conversation and make life seem a bit normal.

A university friend posted a note on Facebook commemorating the anniversary of her husband’s loss of siblings in a horrific fire when he was quite young; another friend posted about whether it was time to shred some papers after losing her husband a few years ago. If Facebook has done nothing else it’s given people a community to express themselves, to reach out and find solace, and also to remember, to honour. It’s not a substitute for the comforting hug from someone, it’s in addition to; another form of emotional healing. I posted a photo of my mom on the anniversary of her death, and had the loveliest responses back, one from our across-the-street neighbour growing up. We always felt like we had two sets of parents watching over us back then, keeping us on the straight and narrow (which was actually not a bad thing). What a wonderful way to remember her, through him.

Reminders of others’ pain can often reminders of my own, and each time I want to reply, be strong, it gets easier.

I wanted to write this because it has been on my mind and while it may be a bit awkward or perhaps morose, I couldn’t seem to clear it out of my head to write anything else.  You never forget completely; the actual date may become hazy, and the anniversaries that had significance before may go by without acknowledgement, eventually. When a moment of recollection does happen, I experience a bit of contemplation, relive the particular memory in my mind, and experience some emotion that befits the recollection.  (For me, I find now it is often a wry smile.) And I count my blessings and carry on with a bit more determination to make the most of each day.

I like to think I am resilient. I know I am fortunate. Some people might even say I am lucky. Whatever it is that brought me to today, happy and buoyant, I acknowledge as a gift. And it makes every day matter that much more; makes every friend, every relative, everyone who has touched my life that much more important and worthy of some of my time and some of my heart.

May your Easter be filled with family, friends, fun, food, and love.  Crème eggs optional. 

Delira and Excira

Well, now, the day has arrived . . . and have all builders, decorators, plumbers, and electricians been banned, like St Patrick chasing the snakes out of Ireland?

View from the stairs

We are . . . almost there. It’s little things—only half the blinds arrived for the two sets of French doors—one for each door, in fact—and the new carpeting for the stairs going up hasn’t yet arrived (although the stairs are still carpeted, thankfully). There’s a light in the new bathroom that needs to be fixed. We haven’t found the perfect small writing desk to go into the new room, and it’s currently borrowing a side table and lamp from another room. There’s a wall in the upstairs sitting room that needs to be repainted. The new walls are still quite bare—Tim and I are planning to take stock of what we have and think about what fits best in the new space.

New room--kitchen through the doors

That’s all. After three months of dust, disruption, and delay, our home is very much ours again, and it is lovely. I must say I am still a bit surprised when I walk downstairs to make a cup of tea and find myself in a gleaming white kitchen with green and cream tiles and a red cappuccino machine. I don’t have to pinch myself—I know it’s real, it’s ours—but I still can’t help but smile. Tim is happy I’m happy. And, oh, he’s happy too; I think we’d both agree it was well worth the effort (and cost). Despite any number of contractors drifting in and out, there was quite a bit we both had to do to keep the house liveable and in order. The Volvo became a moving dumpster; the charity shops in the area proudly display some of our cast-offs. And the mileage we both put on constantly climbing stairs to first move and then re-home all of the glasses, dishes, kitchenware, and even some furniture was enough to burn off all the takeaway food we ate for weeks while the cooker sat forlornly in the middle of the kitchen floor.

In fact we hosted guests this weekend—Tim’s mum, who was attending a party in central London and stayed with us for a few days, and one of his sisters-in-law, visiting from Germany to get some material for her book at a few archives here.

Bliss

On the day before their arrival there was a moment’s dilemma—without blinds for both sets of French doors, the new room would be a bit too exposed (one set faces the lovely new kitchen, the other the garden). We have a second bedroom, previously stuffed to the gills with things from other rooms being refurbished though now delightfully uncluttered, and the sofa bed in the living room often used before the new room came into existence, so we had to make due with those and keep the spare room for the next time.

The new bathroom, however, did see a bit of activity. Tim was the first to shower in the new space—only finished on the day before the company arrived on Thursday. I was third in the queue, and I must say I did enjoy the experience. The water temperature can easily be adjusted to varying degrees of hot, hot, hot (Tim prefers the slightly cooler setting), and it flowed for as long as you stood under the adjustable shower head. 

Bliss, a good hot shower is.

We are still adjusting to the rearrangement of appliances and therefore dishes, pots, spices, and other cooking items in the kitchen. I regularly fumble between three drawers before I find the corkscrew, and Tim is no better, opening at least three cabinet doors before locating the right saucepan. LOL, we’ll get there.

Kitchen with light from the front of the house

Now that it’s done, I barely recall the frustration of having been through it all. There are certain points in the three-month “process” that resonate more than others, like making space on the table to eat breakfast only to find the next day it was occupied with builders’ equipment, which often irked me. Or being without the second toilet for a bit—just a slight inconvenience, but I did miss it now and again.

Enough. It’s done, it’s positively gorgeous, and I am looking forward to our first gathering of friends for a spring fling. Most will remember the downstairs as a bit dark, a bit in need of attention. I can’t even conjure up what the old space looked like; the transformation is so striking, with walls and doors and things in different places, it bears little resemblance of the place that was. And that is most certainly a good thing!

New bathroom, old orchid!

I am certain, too, that a little luck of the Irish saw it all magically come together in time. When I first said “March 17^th” it felt like ages away, and yet the weeks passed and time flew so quickly that I hardly recall February at all.

We haven’t cracked open a bottle of bubbly to celebrate. Perhaps a green beer is in order?

Happy St Patrick’s Day to you all! Oh, and, by the way, the title is, I am told, a Dublin expression for delighted and excited. I haven't checked with my Dublin-born husband, but I can also hear him say it in a bit of an Irish accent!

Recovery

Today is the first time in 11 days I wore trousers that didn’t have an elastic waistband. That, my friends, is a sign of recovery.

The other obvious signs are that I can walk at what most people call a normal stride (though I’d still say I was going at a snail’s pace), I can sleep on one side and not just on my back, and I am working a full day, albeit from the comfort, usually, of my bedroom.

I actually had to go back to my older posts to see what I may have written about my impending operation and recalled B is for Bureaucracy  mentioning the NHS postponement back in October. After a bit of telephone prodding and a reassessment of my condition, a letter flooded in with a revised date in February, and so it happened: I am the proud owner of a piece of mesh in my lower abdomen that my body has not rejected as a foreign object and a currently ghastly three-inch wound in a rather sensitive area. ‘Nuf said.

What I found out in the last 11 days about myself is not very surprising: I am a good patient when it comes to following orders; I am a bad patient when it comes to finding things to do to pass the time while following orders. I have taken several lessons in French on the Duolingo site (though I still cannot seem to master the possessives) and have watched a bit of the Olympics. I read part of my current book, Tulipomania (about how the tulip made and ruined fortunes), and probably read more news on line. I played one hand of solitaire before I realised I have become bored with solitaire. I am not a computer games kind of gal, so I didn’t even try one of those. I did catch up with some personal email so that my Inbox is a bit more manageable. (Oddly enough my work inbox is usually at 0 items by the end of the day, but my Google mail hovers at around 50 items at a time.)

And I’ve been occasionally challenged with the ebb and flow of workmen arriving at different times to do different tasks in different rooms, making it not possible to have a cup of tea or find something in the kitchen for lunch. I’ll admit it’s been mildly challenging, but it meant that I took a short “gentle walk” to the local supermarket for something for lunch rather than trying to enter the fray.

There was one day recently that had me just laughing out loud with the controlled chaos—the noise alone would have driven most people to flee! Merv and Leon the painters were busy sanding away while Leon was singing to his iPod and Merv, a lovely Jamaican, was singing mostly to himself in a wonderful Jamaican lilt. Ben and Reza were sawing kitchen tiles while listening to a rock station blasting 80s tunes. Ben tends to keep his head down; Reza occasionally sings a line aloud, just randomly, and then he laughs. With all this happening our electrician Sparky returned to finally push the recessed lighting into the spaces he created a few weeks ago where he left them hanging, seemingly to allow Merv to paint the ceiling. Sparky made an attempt at the first light, with bits of crumbly stuff and dust falling on our new unprotected wooden floor (to which Reza quickly responded and covered), ruined Merv’s paint work and just shrugged and carried on, making the same mess on another bit of the ceiling (which Merv tells me today may be difficult to just patch without re-painting the entire ceiling over).

Nevermind; it comes with the territory if you choose to inhabit a house in the throes of metamorphosis rather than sun in Spain.

There were a lot of things I wanted to do—my annual cull of the clothes that I haven’t worn in a year which then go to the charity shop, the dump, or a place that helps women prepare for interviews called SmartWorks where I occasionally volunteer, depending on the quality or worn-ness of the garment. Then I realised it was a lot of reaching, bending, and using my “core” which I have been told is a no-no, so that will wait.

I also wanted to move some of the remaining kitchen items down from their temporary, dusty abode in the second floor bedroom now that the kitchen is (gasp!) just about finished, but that would have meant overexerting myself, so that will wait, too.

But not much longer—the swelling is down considerably, I am sleeping better, and I feel more my normal self, so I will gradually add back a few physical tasks--starting with commuting to the office on Monday. I hope that by the end of next week when I know the painters will be done and it’s possible the plumber will be tidying up, we will have our house almost back . . . I say almost because there are small things around that need care—the newly-built cupboard needs doors so that my expensive wine glasses don’t tumble out when we whoosh by, but the builders needed to move on to another job while waiting on parts. There are a few wires here and there that need a trim and a tuck. And Tim and I need to do a picture inventory and decide which prints and paintings go back up on the walls, and where, now that we have a bit more space. It’s all good, and the once distant and seemingly elusive completion date, set in my mind’s eye of 17 March, looks promising.

To quote that well-known band Europe, it’s the final countdown.

Progress!

I am feeling good about my 2013 prediction that our London home will be its lovable, liveable self by the 17^th of March. Having thus far lived through wearing, cleaning and occasionally inhaling layers of dust and a lot of eating out, Tim and I are now living in more than one room and cooking meals regularly, even though the kitchen isn’t quite complete. The cooker is connected, the refrigerator is still in the centre of the room, and finding anything in the cupboards is a bit of a challenge . . . but it’s all doable. (Cue sigh of relief.)

The kitchen in transformation

I took the day off from work today to sort out those cupboards—first to clean them top to bottom of the dust that’s been collecting in and on top of them for six weeks or so, and to start thinking about how to rearrange the contents. The cooker has moved across the room, and there’s still a bit of indecision about where the electric kettle and toaster will go . . . and we have the addition of (I'm excited!) a cappuccino maker, a present from Tim’s mum, that also needs to find a bit of counter space. Everything else will hide neatly in drawers or behind closed doors. I am looking forward to a bright, clean, uncluttered space. It’s not like it was wildly crowded or messy before, but I think we’ll both be more cognisant of putting everything in its place.

I can’t believe how exhausting it’s been today! Once Tim left this morning I got started with emptying and/or wiping down every cabinet, preparing for this weekend when I expect—I hope—we’ll move most of the spices, glasses, dishes, cooking “stuff”, pots, pans and other assorted kitchen items into a permanent new home. I already cheated a bit—I’ve moved the dishes and glasses into a glass-fronted cupboard. I also placed a few spices and cooking ingredients in the cupboard nearest the cooker; it made sense at the time and can easily be reshuffled to another cabinet. I realise two of the new cupboards don’t have shelves in them, and need them! (A trip to Ikea may be in my future.)

The reception room

I’ve also made a few decisions, awaiting Tim’s consent, of bowls, mugs, and glasses that can find their way to the charity shop. We certainly have more than we ever use, even with guests, and I’m anxious to have a good chuck out rather than simply put everything back. We’ve been doing quite a lot of that over the last two months—I can make the first cut and Tim assesses the going-out pile, occasionally rescuing a pewter mug or a carpet croquet game. Slowly but surely the clutter is diminishing. This weekend will be an opportunity to do another blitz—poor Tim, I think it exhausts him emotionally, but he has found the multiple trips to the dump cathartic. Certainly there’s less stuff and nothing that’s been otherwise given away or tossed has been regretted. Possibly the old Tonka truck, but it was in terrible shape!

The reception rooms are now back in order, save for a bit of plastering / repainting that needs to happen around the new electrical outlets. Fortunately most of them are hidden behind something, or will be, so it doesn’t look glaringly awful.  The new wooden floor looks lovely, as I’d imagined, and the cleaner has been around to remove this week’s layer of dust—I’d been trying to keep up, knowing it was largely futile yet wanting to keep it liveable. I dug out the photographs and dusted those off as well. I know Tim is happy having his “office” back, though I’ll try to keep the ever-growing stacks of briefs in some hidden cabinet rather than on view as it’s the first room you see when you enter the house. (I’ve yet to win that battle, LOL.)

The office

It’s nice to have a comfortable chair to sit in and no longer need to live out of the bedroom, formerly the only untouched room in the house (though I might add the dust still managed to proliferate on everything in there). The second bedroom is, well, a tip; still lots of stuff from other places piled up, with its own layer of six-week plaster and other dust lying atop every inch of space. I have a narrow walkway in there to get to the two wardrobes that hold my clothes and shoes; I’ll admit to occasionally knocking into china or wine bottles and cursing under my breath! I know it will all be over soon and Tim will be serving drinks in honour of St Patrick before too long.

Speaking of events, I read that the groundhog saw his shadow so we’re in for six more weeks of winter. We are experiencing a very mild season here in London; it has barely reached freezing more than a handful of times and always in the late evening or early morning, and while the days have been wet, wet, wet, they have been mostly mild. I know the Northeast has been pummeled with snow, ice, and generally horrid conditions; I can’t imagine that anymore after six winters in England where the snow has come, but not every year and usually just with one occasion every other winter. Sure, I miss it a little . . . but not as much as New York pizza!

The new bedroom being painted

I’ll look forward to posting a few photos of us sipping something bubbly when all is said and done . . . the list seems never ending but now it is filled with for the most part the small things. Replace the carpet on the stairs; find a small writing table and chair for the new bedroom; get blinds for the new French doors.

March 17th. St Patrick is the patron saint of Ireland, yes, and also of engineers . . . I’d like to think we’ve  applied the principles of math (there’s been lots of measurements) and science (OK, that’s a stretch) to develop a solution to a practical problem—how to make the best of the space we have . . . with our patron saint looking down and smiling on us. We have chosen green (and white) tiles for the kitchen, after all.

And just think, it’ll be just days short of the vernal equinox! I know we’re all awaiting the return of spring. Bring it on.

Resolve

While rarely used as a noun, I quite like the idea of a strong determination to achieve something (so says the Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary).

It’s the “something” bit that I like. Yes, ambiguous, but I am looking at resolve on a more holistic level. I would like to simply show a strong determination when I want to achieve something, whatever that something may be. Is that quite enough?

Well, enough said about the R word. OK, let’s talk about how I need to find the strong determination NOT to turn around and spend another three weeks on the Isle of Wight instead of in London while the house is slowly, gently, determinedly being put back into a liveable space. The slow and gentle bit belongs to the electrician, previously referred to here as Sparky, who at giving an estimate of five days is, I do believe, days shy of his fifth week. If you’ll pardon the pun, I do see the light at the end of the . . . well, not tunnel but certainly hallway. To be fair, there have been modifications (Tim thought he told him about the socket for the extractor fan, and there was a misunderstanding about what was meant by re-wiring) as well as unexpected issues (the burglar alarm doesn’t seem to want to play along with the rest of the wiring) and minor mishaps (who expected the ceiling in the hallway to crumble when Sparky started to work there?) . . . and it now appears as though all sockets are in place and we have wonderful new lights and outlets in several rooms.

So we can see the dust and dirt more distinctly.

Truly, it is coming along. We came back from our stay on the IOW knowing that there would be plaster and all other kinds of dust and dirt on every surface; we decided we would take at least one day of the weekend to make the place habitable—after all, it was time to return to London to work. It was a funny sight at the end of the day Saturday—I was covered in white and Tim was covered in black: me from the hoovering (that’s vacuuming for my non-British readers) and dusting top to bottom and at close range two sets of stairs, me and Henry (the name on the industrial hoover) working hard to pick up bits of ceiling, walls, and a sizeable layer of white dust. Tim wound up sporting a rather hilarious black face after pulling down the remains of the ceiling that started its descent when the electrician went to adjust some wires.

The messiest of the work is probably done—there will be sawing for the new wood floors this week, but the walls are up (or down) and the builders are aware that we are back to living in London so they will, I think, be less apt to leave dozens of tea mugs in the sink and make a minor mess of the loo as the wifey is back in town, and we girls care about those things. And my prediction is that we will be able to host a St Patrick’s Day luncheon, where all kitchen units will be in place, all walls will be painted, all floors down and all lights up, and Tim will be preparing his feast from the other side of the kitchen where the oven has shifted and the gas pipe properly re-attached to the cooker.

You must be wondering, then, what I’ve been doing with three weeks off and not in London? Well, relaxing in Cowes, of course, for some part of it. In fact we had a lovely Christmas Day, beginning with a midday gathering with friends at a local pub—apparently a tradition there—followed by a joint effort of making a fantastic dinner for two that included pheasants. I would say that the meat, slow cooked in a pot with vegetables, was even better as leftovers. (Happy to share the recipe for my non-vegetarian friends!)

Before my time away from work began I asked Tim if, as a consolation for not going someplace warm for two weeks as we usually do while we spend money on immigration and house re-furbing, that we go to a proper pub that has a lovely fire and spend an overnight stay in a city we’d never been. Always aiming to please he found a pleasant coaching inn somewhere between Salisbury and Stonehenge and we had two lovely days exploring the cathedral and the surrounding area, including the ancient monument. We also had one of the best Indian meals we have had in a while in Amesbury called Tandoori Nights, walking briskly through torrents of rain and wind along the high street to find the place warm, dry, and very crowded. In the morning having slept in we missed breakfast but found a lovely café that offered us eggs on toast and a delightful cuppa. It was good to be away, and fit the request perfectly. Stonehenge was a bonus, and while we both found it a bit Disney-esque (there is now a slow-moving vehicle that transports you to the site where you can get near-ish to the formation) I was happy to see it in person.

Kissing the odd animal at the Black Boy pub!

We also day-tripped over to Winchester, which is a short ferry + train journey from Cowes, to meet with a friend and have some dinner. We did a minor pub crawl, having started at the Number 5 to warm up with a cappuccino and then walked along the canal to The Black Boy for a drink and then further along to the Wyckeham Arms—the latter is a 1755 coaching inn that the great Admiral Nelson fancied on his way to Portsmouth. What a treat it was to walk through lovely Winchester with the river—I think the Itchen—for company along the path and to have a lovely meal with Tim’s fellow sailor and recent boat owner Dominic.

We were also delighted to have Tim’s mum join us after Christmas to ring in the New Year—we all managed to stay up and sip champagne while watching the London fireworks on Tim’s new toy, a tablet computer with I must say a very sharp, clear picture. We also took a drive to lovely Yarmouth, with lunch at The George Hotel which has a fantastic view of the Solent (and the ferries coming back and forth from Lymington). The hotel is slightly posh, but not in an over-the-top way that would make me feel underdressed in jeans and a nice blouse—cloth napkins, nice service, small-ish portions, and all very civilized. I think we all enjoyed our meals. The oysters were a big hit with Tim’s mum!

The old church  in Godshill.

In another outing we traveled to Godshill, where beautiful thatched cottages dot the landscape and there is a medieval 14^th century church that is said to be the most photographed in all of England. There is a famous mural of Christ, crucified on a flowering lily, adorning one of the walls as well.

But most days we idled at home, reading the paper, making dinner, occasionally going to the Island Sailing Club, and there was even a game or two of Scrabble played that I recall!

 All in all it was nice to have a three-week respite from commuting and work and the upside-down world of the house in London. Three days into the work week I’m a bit tired at the end of each day, but it has meant having glorious nights of deep sleep and, for some reason, odd dreams (eg David Cameron visiting on the Isle of Wight walking with a cane)!

Happy 2014, dear friends. And for my American readers, bundle up!

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.