Now I have to hope to the god that is part of my new official state religion (do I need to have the local vicar over for tea when I move?) that someone over there hires me soon. Amazingly, people want to interview me.
The goal is to get the fuck out of America with my daughter before Trump is inaugurated. No specific plan of where to move, just wherever I get a job. We will move to the Falklands if we have to.
It feels so close now.
Thank you. I’ve been having daily anxiety where I’ve pictured them saying something like, “you fit the criteria just like we’ve said you did all along, but the doctor made an error on your father’s birth certificate and it says he was born in Lonbon, so no UK for you.” It’s like a massive weight has been lifted.
Oh, the endless forms. “I declare that everything in this form is true and honest and if any information is found to be fraudulent my application will be denied.”
I’m excited for you to get annoyed at the british food.
Seriously though rooting for your happiness!
I was raised by a British father and also a British grandmother. I’ve had years to be annoyed at British food. And they came over here in the 1960s, so it was before the British discovered that people in Asia made food too.
My childhood was a delightful mix of smells of things like Marmite and Daddies Sauce.
I do like a nice Welsh rarebit though. And I know how to pronounce it properly too. It’s pronounced ‘Welsh bunnykins.’
I also know how to properly pronounce gooseberry. Americans think you pronounce it like the animal. Nonsense.