rejoice! rejoice!

We're celebrating --Angela has finally got her 'settlement visa', meaning that she has indefinite leave to remain in the UK. It may surprise you to learn that a Canadian woman, married for two years to a Brit, should have to endure a tortuous process to have the right to live with me in my country. Never mind that Canadians have fought and died with us in two world wars --that's irrelevant. If your country fought against us, that's fine --welcome in! And of course there are millions here who haven't bothered with any paperwork: some of whom are still trying to kill us.

Angela has had to pass a test on 'British culture'. British culture includes knowing the populations of England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, to the decimal point (on outdated census figures); though we live in Cornwall, it means knowing how many members sit in the Northern Ireland Assembly (it's 108, though I'm sure you knew that.) It means knowing the legislature of the EU in mind-numbing detail; and knowing how many Muslims, Buddhists, etc. live here; again to the decimal point. Altogether 800 possible questions, most of that absurd kind. God knows what dessicated civel servant made it all up as a test of our culture.

She has had to provide 20 official documents with both our names on them. You work out how easy that is. We had to resort to asking our newsagent to put our joint names on the monthly bill.

Including essential early visas, we have also had to pay the Home Office £1500. It's a rip-off.

I vented my anger in a poem some time ago...

UK Passport Control

‘My great-grandfather was last seen
By mates of his from Newfoundland
Trudging through bodies to stand sentry
At Vimy Ridge in ’17.
My grandfather, in ’44,
Lost both his legs on Juno Beach,
Yet still stands proudly for the Queen.
My dad in Banff loves nothing more
Than Shakespeare, to direct and teach.
This feels like home –you understand?’
‘Sorry, you’ve got no right of entry.’

‘Mein Urgrossvater –how you say?—
On Western Front won Iron Cross,
Killed fünfzig Tommies in one day.
Grossvater, Kolonel mit Paulus;
Mein Vater served in the SS,
Young scientist in Birkenau,
But kind man, all the same, for sure.
You had to do what had to do.
The same for me in GDR;
Stassi not all bad; shades of grey.
Ich kann nicht mehr; I like to stay.’
‘No problem, mate; you’re one of us.’