My stress didn’t end there. I’ve spent nearly a decade stressing about immigration. One sheet of paper wasn’t going to magically switch off that part of my brain. It felt unreal even as I waited to be called into the council chamber where about thirty of us were waiting to swear our oath to our new country. I was, instead, struck by the nonchalance that most people waiting to become new Brits seemed to display. And, when they announced that we were officially British, I couldn’t help crying as relief and emotions overwhelmed me. Oh, and because I had tears in my eyes, I nearly fell over as I was going up to accept my ceremonial certificate. Pure grace, I tell you.

I do have to say that the ceremony did help to make it feel more real in a way. Maybe that is the point of our ceremonies. To make the abstract seem real.

The next morning I nearly went back to sleep because we were out a bit late, but I couldn’t. Remembering that I was now British made me too happy to sleep. Now I practice my new status, somewhat half jokingly, “As a British citizen I think…” Oh, and I pay more attention to EU stuff as well. Things like the possible future collapse of the Euro is more relevant to my interests now that I am an EU citizen as well (despite not living in a Eurozone country). Not that I shouldn’t have just been concerned living here with ILR, but it seems like I should pay attention to these things more. Sort of like politics when I became old enough to vote in the States.

We’ve applied for my passport, and I am hoping I will get it before my birthday. I am hoping for a trip somewhere in Europe as a part of the celebrations.

We’ve also decided against moving to North America, despite the Duke probably being able to pull enough points and being qualified for a shortage occupation in Canada. We don’t want to go through this again. We may consider moving into Europe.

Now, I am not sure of where to go from here with this blog. I guess I am still an American in the UK, but I also identify as British. I know that countless people obtain a second citizenship for practical reasons and don’t see that as much of a change, but for me, I do. I know that a lot of British people would always see me as just American and a lot of Americans would never put another nationality as equal to the States in their hearts, but I guess I am not of the same opinion in either case. Naturalising meant a lot to me. Not in the least that I can stay with my husband without immigration issues, but it was a lot more than that as well.

I will probably continue on. For now, I will just say that I am the most grateful Britican in the world. Or is that Ameriton?

Every day for weeks I wait for the postie to drop an invitation to book a citizenship ceremony, and every day I am disappointed. Two weeks ago, we even broke down and called the Home Office. I never called about applications before. It’s not like they can actually tell you anything of meaning about your application. I guess I was just hoping for them to tell me that I had been approved, and that I hadn’t heard yet because they send the approvals through second class post (what the heck is up with that).

I can’t do anything that doesn’t involve waiting in some way. Last week at the royal wedding parties we attended, I was also waiting to hear about my citizenship application. When I found out that the US had killed Osama Bin Laden, I was also waiting for my application to be approved. It’s always in the back of my mind, and while I am trying to be patient (and appreciate how privileged I am to even get the chance to wait for my BC application to go through), it’s hard.

I shouldn’t have told anyone that I applied. Now, everyone asks if there is any news, which is sweet and shows concern, but it’s hard to read the response. Most Brits think it’s a fairly quick process (and compared to some countries, it is), that it’s free (or close enough to free), and that it’s just a matter of asking. Of course, it’s not, but I guess it’s not up to me to constantly show it’s not.

So I am going to go back to drinking coffee (and waiting). Later, I am going to mow our lawn (and wait). When I hear something, you will be among the first to know.

Dad has never lost grip on reality before. He is a bit of an older father than people my age normally have (I was from his “second” family and my younger half-sisters his “third”). It’s possible that he has the beginnings of senility, but it is likely this is a symptom of the syndrome he has (a syndrome that keeps on giving). He has an appointment with his GP this week, and we should know more.

But this has brought up a lot of things for me: fear of losing my father (one of my few blood relatives, although that list has grown a bit in recent years); upset at hearing my father has lost control of his faculties, even if for a brief period; wanting to be with him and to help my sister; my own gradual acceptance of this disorder and understanding of my place on the “spectrum”, which is not something I have even begun to accept or understand before this really; and, like almost everything upsetting the past six months, mom’s death.

We can’t really afford to travel back to the States right now. As a matter of fact, while I am waiting for my citizenship (and if approved until I get my British passport), I shouldn’t leave the country. I feel guilty for the years I spent away from them. I get upset when I call, and my dad can’t hear me. I don’t want him to die. I don’t want him to become senile in any way. I don’t want my sister’s life to get harder.

On the good side, I had a very good, nearly hour long conversation with Dad today. Because of the lifelong complications he’s had from being a carrier of the permutation for Fragile-X, his sociability is usually not very high. Some days the mood strikes him and he gets talkative. Back in the States, he was able to call me, but now it’s just chance. This is the first time in a few months that he’s been very reciprocal in the conversation. When he’s not talking, it’s hard for me because I am not the world’s most social person (again, the syndrome that keeps on giving. Thanks, genes!). Today, things turned out well.

So, we went with a tonne of paperwork. Well, really, not as much as we’ve had at other times. The worker photocopied and certified our documents, took our payment, and sent us on our way. The whole thing took about 15 minutes, but I imagine that is because we were prepared and had everything in order.

I don’t know why I am in the least bit nervous, but it feels so final and important. It is indeed a huge thing. If I am successful in my application and am invited to a citizenship ceremony, I will be agreeing to take part in British society in the fullest. I will carry a passport that also declares that I am a citizen of the EU as well. It seems too good to be true. Not to have to worry about immigration issues with my husband again (unless we choose to move to the States, which I don’t really see happening). I think more than anything that is what makes me the most nervous about all this. After so long we will finally have citizenship to the same country.

To lighten my mood, I watch this video:

Starting at 1:09, I have to laugh. It’s not a laugh from ridicule, but a laugh because even as a native English speaker, I will probably end up flubbing something up because of nerves.

I can only hope I will have the chance to make such a slip.

For those of you who have never lived in London, it’s not easy being a pet owner here, at least as a renter. So we’ve put off getting a dog, even though I miss having one and the duke dreams of running off and studying wolves. We were looking forward to having a “borrowed” dog, but I can’t say I will shed a tear when he goes. Why? I think I have become a cat person. Or maybe I was never a big dog person (we always had medium, sane sized dogs). That’s not to say that he’s been a burden (it’s actually been a lot of fun), but I will be glad not to have to hoover every day, emptying the canister twice during the process.

I guess the years without a dog made me forget about smelly bum breath, the farts (clue to when you’re about to be assaulted by the reek: the dog gets up and moves really quickly to the other side of the room), the hair, the neediness… The duke has said that if we ever get a dog, we will definitely get a smaller model. There is something about having a family member that adores and respects you in a way no cat would ever lower him or herself to, though.

Maybe the best bit was when on the first weekend we had him, I awoke to find the duke lecturing our doggy guest on how he needn’t bark every time anyone came near the house, and explaining that the weekends were the time for the duke to catch up on his kip. Honestly, the dog didn’t bark much after the lecture. A runner up has to be my ten pound cat pushing this massive black dog out of the way at meal times.

So at the end of the week, we return to our status of confirmed cat people, at least for the time being. I predict that I will have finally hoovered up the last of the dog hair sometime this summer.

EDIT: I was wrong. I do miss him! Dogs are great. Although it’s nice to have my cat back to his more dog-cat behaviour (he was acting pure cat during the dog visit), I think I am much more open to a dog in the near future. I have thought about him a lot in the past few hours!

The Duke got the electric/gas bill, and we’re above their estimate. So that means we have to run the boiler less often. We barely run it now. The only thing I think we can do would be to actually sell the ambient heat back to the company, but I don’t think it works that way.

So I am not running the boiler during the day today. And we’re cutting down on the use of our dehumidifier. The Duke hasn’t asked me to do this, but I feel guilty. Both bills are quarterly and they were off by about a month’s usage. I am going to stock up on candles and use them to read and write during the day when England’s gloomy winter days make it impossible to see. The side bonus is that I can warm my hands by them and the open flame might help dry things out. It sounds like a joke, but I am really close to doing it.

Or we could just say screw it. It’s not like we go on holiday. Don’t bother shutting off all the lights and standby settings (which we do for the most part). If this is what the bills look like when we’re being all green and careful, it feels like we shouldn’t bother.

Gah, I can’t believe I am worried about this stuff. I guess this makes me a grown up. I am a pair of aviator specs away from being my dad of my childhood with his “this place is light up like a damn Christmas tree.”

It was fairly obvious that I was going to have to choose a soap. Soaps here are a whole lot different from American soaps. I could probably write a thesis on the differences, but it would probably be easier just to list how they are similar. They are both called soaps, and people tend to sleep around a lot in them. That will have to do for now.

So when I got here, I was looking forward to getting into one, and eventually (after a few false starts) settled on EastEnders for telly and the occasional listen to The Archers on the radio (which is a whole ‘nother blog post, trust me). After watching EE for a year, I was considering giving it up. As much as I liked British soaps better than American ones, I felt a bit bored with them. What kept me watching was the fact that it was a part of the evening routine. Four days a week, after dinner, I could pop on EE (or “Albert Square” as my father in law calls it) and try to suspend disbelief.

So after them making a pig’s ear of some story arcs and doing a fairly decent job with a few, the anticipated baby swap New Years episode came up. I say anticipated because most people were spoiled about it ahead of time, and some of the subsequent complaints came before the swap was aired. For those not well versed in EE lore, the end of the year saw two women heavily pregnant: one was Ronnie Branning, a former teenage mother and victim of incest who didn’t get to raise her child, and Kat Moon, a former teenage mother and victim of incest who didn’t get to raise her child. Do you see what they did there? They became mirrored foils of each other. Of course on top of that baggage, Ronnie had a history of miscarriage. Tragic.

Of course both women go into labour roughly the same time. Kat gives birth in the Queen Vic where she is the landlady, and Ronnie in hospital without her husband who is in Dubai for convenient plotting reasons. New Years Eve finds Kat in hospital because of haemorrhaging and Ronnie home alone with her newborn son James. Yadda yadda yadda, James dies and Ronnie snaps and eventually switches his corpse with Kat’s living son who was alone in the flat above the Queen Vic while a party raged below. Oh, was that insensitive of me to yadda yadda a cot death? Well, I wouldn’t have done that if it were real, and this wasn’t real.

I don’t think that this was a great story line. It’s not the first or even the fifth time EE had used women gone mad (or at least a bit irrational) over their inability to have a child/keep a child alive as the catalyst for a story arc. However, I don’t really get the furore that has happened since then.

Since I’ve been watching, EE has covered a lot of things that people would find highly personal in a less than responsible way. From mental illness to crack addiction to miscarriage to murder they’ve used events which when they happen to people in real life, don’t result in the outcomes as on the show. They are used to drive the story along. Sure, they might justify it by saying that it raises awareness, but we all know that is B.S. Not one “issue” raised in the time I have been watching has been handled very realistically, at least in my experience (and I’ve had my life touched by quite a few, including, believe it or not, a crack addict almost burning down my home). Yet, it never crossed my mind to ring up Ofcom.

In fact, it seems to only cross the minds of people when it involves a murdered dog or a bereaved parent of a baby (not a bereaved parent suffering a miscarriage) going off the deep end. Sure not every parent who lost a child to cot death would swap their dead one for a living one, but Ronnie isn’t any parent. She’s a character on a soap. Do people really think that the public will now view mothers who have lost their child to cot death with suspicion? Do they think that the public will hesitate to offer sympathy to a bereaved mother in case they are the victim of such a horrible swap?

Yes, cot death is horrific enough, but so is mental illness. You really don’t need to make one of the two crazy people in the square a murderess. And you don’t need to make the resident serial killer into a psychotic either (most serial killers may be psychopaths, but they rarely are psychotic). Yet both of these became a part of the EE narrative this year. Did anyone ring Ofcom of the Beeb? Talk about picking on an already stigmatised group of people…

I don’t know, I trust people to understand that what we see on telly isn’t real. And for those who can’t, you aren’t going to avoid the misconceptions by sanitising our airwaves of potential offence. We’re not talking about speech rooted in hatred. We’re not even talking about speech rooted in ignorance. We’re talking about people expecting to never be reminded of horrible things unless it’s treated with a certain level of respect. While I can understand people wanting that to happen, it doesn’t with most things on telly, so why make the case in only a few instances?

If most people found it repugnant, they’d not tune in. However, it seems to have sparked something with viewers because EE is still pulling very strong numbers. Again, we’re not talking about hate speech, we’re talking about something you shouldn’t expect to be protected from: the fact that the media will try to use tragedy to its own ends. Sure, complain to the Beeb (you probably pay your licence fee, so by all means, let them know you’re disappointed), but don’t expect Ofcom to step in. But before firing off that email or picking up the phone, imagine a BBC which totally reflected reality. You wouldn’t watch, and you’d be a hypocrite to expect it to only be real when it involves puppies and cot death.

Obviously, one of my resolutions is to go back on my diet (third day, rah rah). The other, a bit of a late one, is to not fire up the PS3 so much.

Our monitor is broken. Let’s have the sister-in-law to be over. Oh look it’s snowing. No one shovels. Damn tabloids telling everyone they’ll get sued if someone slips on their shovelled pavement. Monitor is still broken. Let’s get a giant telly. The snow as melted. Oh look, it’s snowing again. Everyone’s stuck in a few inches of snow.

Crap it’s cold.

Oh, we’ve got the plague again. It’s cold and snowy. Cat won’t let me sleep in the morning. I am being lazy with the house. I am reading a lot. Our back garden is perfect and white. Damn it’s cold. Let’s turn on the boiler. It’s for future Mr and Mrs Moggs to pay.

Send out the cards. I always forget someone. Or some three. On the diet. Off the diet. Read some more. Watch the big telly. Go for long walks. Get teeth cleaned. Write a bit. Rue the fact I didn’t knit or crochet presents because it’s too damn snowy to shop. Or rather, it’s too damn snowy for us to get anywhere due to the fact British transportation is designed for a window of about 30 degrees C and no snow. Or leaves apparently. Go to the Christmas party of Mr Moggs old job where everyone just lost their jobs. Cat won’t let me sleep in the morning. Creepy Wikileaks guy may well be innocent, but he still creeps me out.

It’s supposed to be warm for Christmas. Warm after all this snow, and we won’t get a white Christmas. Cat won’t let me sleep in the morning. Buy everyone presents in a few hours in Croydon. Exhausted. Exhausted. Cat won’t let me sleep in the morning.

So we talked about notebooks or netbooks. We were planning on buying them before all the recent extra expenses came up in the autumn, and we revived that idea, at least in part. However, we had a perfectly good, small telly that could work for a monitor. We could get a new (bigger) telly and use the small one for a monitor. So we went off to Croydon to look for bargains and found one in the form of a 32 inch wide-screen which Mr Moggs lugged home in the ice and rain (which only began AFTER we bought the telly). It’s the biggest friggen telly I’ve ever owned. It scares me when I walk into the living room sometimes. It also scares me to think that a lot of people would consider it “mid-sized”.

Maybe I should give some background. I am not someone who really hates television. I actually love it, maybe too much. I guess that is why when it was up to me to supply the telly for myself, I either went without or used small cast offs (my grandfather’s portable black and white from the 1960s, an ex’s old 13 inch colour computer monitor from the early 1980s). At one point after Mr Moggs and I married, I had a 5 inch black and white telly that we used to watch in bed with it resting on Mr Moggs’ chest. I guess I always thought that if it was small enough, a big enough pain to watch, or the picture was crap enough I would do something more productive when possible. Or if not, at least I wouldn’t be enjoy wasting time with it too much.

Now we have this massive thing, and it calls to me. Everything is a bit brighter, a bit clearer, and a lot more mesmerising on it. It makes me feel a bit queasy, but I don’t really dislike it. In fact, I am glad we’ve got it. It’s big, it’s beautiful, and people won’t mistake it for a computer monitor like they did our old telly (which is now, of course, fulfilling that destiny as a monitor).

In time I am sure it will become normal to me, almost the same way that the little 5 inch telly became normal. In a way, I think it’s actually good for me to exercise my discipline with it. I might even get more done because I will be more careful about switching it on. At least that is what I tell myself.