things change but don't get better in any appreciable way
It was last Tuesday, or I guess it was two Tuesdays ago, that I started the day with a trip to Marylebone Station (really a nice and charming little train station as far as London stations go) to take a surprisingly bucolic journey to Solihull, a suburb of Birmingham, in order to make my application for indefinite leave to remain, otherwise known as settlement.
[For the last five years I have lived in England by permission granted under a work permit, which was issued to Freshfields in 2007 to employ me, and a related work visa, which was valid for a period of 60 months (and which went through the wash in January of 2009 when I neglected to wear a wool shirt on a trans-atlantic flight (never again)) and which effectively tied my right to live and work in this country to my job at Freshfields.]
I met my immigration lawyer at the door to Dominion Court, the imposing name of the less-than-imposing UK Border Agency Public Enquiry Office in Solihull. We waited for about two hours, then we moved to a bank-teller-style window where my lawyer fed documents through the document slot and answered any questions. I don't think I had to answer any questions. About twenty minutes later, the border agent told me I was approved for settlement. Then we waited a little longer, and a lady took my picture and my fingerprints. Within seven to ten business days of that meeting I'll get a card which contains that information, and I can remain in the United Kingdom, well, indefinitely, employed at Freshfields or otherwise.
It was a good feeling, then, on the equally bucolic trip through the Chilterns back to Marylebone that day, a feeling effectively that I could live in any of those charming little villages the train stopped in briefly as it barrelled into London, that I didn't have to live in a shoebox in London within fifteen minutes of the office, because I didn't have to work at that particular office any more, and I really didn't need to work in any office any more, because if I lived in a trifling village in the middle of nowhere, I wouldn't need the cash I need to live in London. And I could have a golden retriever. And--why not?--a cat.
So, I've spent a little time in the period since that Tuesday train ride looking at train maps and towns with train stations and real estate in those towns, and the results are, as one would come to expect in this country, completely outrageous and disappointing: crappy little flats or cottages at what are still, to American sensibilities, exorbitant prices, in areas with basically no job prospects, even if I was willing to take a 75 per cent. pay cut.
I still have regular dreams about living in apartments that are much bigger than my actual apartment and contain rooms and spaces that I simply had forgotten about or had not utilised properly. I have a backlog of sixteen pictures to get framed, and at the moment I have one framed picture at home and five framed pictures at the office which need wall space. I am out of space. I have utilised the shit out of my real life space.
I've also been dreaming about people lately, but people I haven't seen or thought about in years. A couple nights ago I had a dream about my securities professor, and yesterday on Facebook he announced he'd just had a son. Last night I dreamt about hanging out with Robert (haven't done that in real life in 60 months) and chatting with my seventh grade science teacher.
On the agenda for this week, among other things, is vetting the notion of a Bath-to-London commute with my equally disillusioned and cynical colleagues and not buying any art.
Happy September-- /B/
[For the last five years I have lived in England by permission granted under a work permit, which was issued to Freshfields in 2007 to employ me, and a related work visa, which was valid for a period of 60 months (and which went through the wash in January of 2009 when I neglected to wear a wool shirt on a trans-atlantic flight (never again)) and which effectively tied my right to live and work in this country to my job at Freshfields.]
I met my immigration lawyer at the door to Dominion Court, the imposing name of the less-than-imposing UK Border Agency Public Enquiry Office in Solihull. We waited for about two hours, then we moved to a bank-teller-style window where my lawyer fed documents through the document slot and answered any questions. I don't think I had to answer any questions. About twenty minutes later, the border agent told me I was approved for settlement. Then we waited a little longer, and a lady took my picture and my fingerprints. Within seven to ten business days of that meeting I'll get a card which contains that information, and I can remain in the United Kingdom, well, indefinitely, employed at Freshfields or otherwise.
It was a good feeling, then, on the equally bucolic trip through the Chilterns back to Marylebone that day, a feeling effectively that I could live in any of those charming little villages the train stopped in briefly as it barrelled into London, that I didn't have to live in a shoebox in London within fifteen minutes of the office, because I didn't have to work at that particular office any more, and I really didn't need to work in any office any more, because if I lived in a trifling village in the middle of nowhere, I wouldn't need the cash I need to live in London. And I could have a golden retriever. And--why not?--a cat.
So, I've spent a little time in the period since that Tuesday train ride looking at train maps and towns with train stations and real estate in those towns, and the results are, as one would come to expect in this country, completely outrageous and disappointing: crappy little flats or cottages at what are still, to American sensibilities, exorbitant prices, in areas with basically no job prospects, even if I was willing to take a 75 per cent. pay cut.
I still have regular dreams about living in apartments that are much bigger than my actual apartment and contain rooms and spaces that I simply had forgotten about or had not utilised properly. I have a backlog of sixteen pictures to get framed, and at the moment I have one framed picture at home and five framed pictures at the office which need wall space. I am out of space. I have utilised the shit out of my real life space.
I've also been dreaming about people lately, but people I haven't seen or thought about in years. A couple nights ago I had a dream about my securities professor, and yesterday on Facebook he announced he'd just had a son. Last night I dreamt about hanging out with Robert (haven't done that in real life in 60 months) and chatting with my seventh grade science teacher.
On the agenda for this week, among other things, is vetting the notion of a Bath-to-London commute with my equally disillusioned and cynical colleagues and not buying any art.
Happy September-- /B/