Another day and no visa-post. This shouldn't surprise me. On Friday I succumbed to the make-as-much-money-out-of-the-visa-suckers-as-possible system and paid out the extortionate £1.20 per minute charge to call the US embassy (or rather, a call centre in Glasgow representing the US embassy) and they informed me that while I have qualified for an interview (which must mean I'm HIV / TB free, which is good to know), I wont hear for another 2 to 4 weeks when that interview is. But, like a half starved pigeon that gets fed sporadically, I check constantly just in case.
The waiting is wearing thin. It was never supposed to have lasted this long. Originally, I came back to England (in 2007) with the plan that Jeremy would join me within 6 months. Visas and jobs and life got in the way and, well, that didn’t happen. Then we got engaged in February this year and I made over-optimistic plans to move over within 6 months, and errrr that didn’t work out either. Now I’m not making plans (I’m a big fat liar). I have surrendered to the 'Great We’ll See’ (bollocks I have) and am sitting on my hands and waiting for the visa-gods to anoint me (I’m jumping up and down and waving my hands around trying to get their attention).
It’s driving me insane.
I am not a patient person. Stubborn? Yes. Patient? No. Which makes for an interesting combination. Waiting becomes not an act of passive patience but one of persistent stubborn endurance. I rant and I rail and I stamp my feet like Veruca Salt on the inside, all the while maintaining a look of benign calm on the outside (well, a lot of the time…I have been known to stamp my feet in frustration, but normally only in front of Jeremy and my family).
At times it’s had the feeling of waiting in the rain for a bus, when you know it might be quicker to walk but you’ve waited too long to give up because the bus might be right around the corner. Although that’s not the best analogy because walking isn’t really an option – sitting down and crying is about the only option I can see and that’s not particularly constructive. Anyway, the bus is around the corner. I can see it (by standing in the middle of oncoming traffic and peeking around the corner). It’s sat there, with its driver, watching me in the rain and having a sneaky fag (Cigarette! That means Cigarette!) whilst obstinately waiting until it’s exactly the right time to move the 5 foot to the bus stop and open up the doors and take all my money.
I’m slightly concerned that by the time the bus doors open I’ll have gone completely loopy. The pressure is mounting. As usual, I’ve overestimated my mouth capacity and bitten off more than I can chew. The living out of suitcases and wedding planning and emigration and job searching and goodbyes and homelessness and missing Jeremy and hair-care are all mounting up and I wouldn’t be surprised if steam started coming out of my ears.
The problem is there’s no solution other than to suck it up and wait and hope that at the end of it all my mental faculties will still be intact. Oh and tell Jeremy every 5 minutes how fed up I am of waiting. That helps a little.
The waiting is wearing thin. It was never supposed to have lasted this long. Originally, I came back to England (in 2007) with the plan that Jeremy would join me within 6 months. Visas and jobs and life got in the way and, well, that didn’t happen. Then we got engaged in February this year and I made over-optimistic plans to move over within 6 months, and errrr that didn’t work out either. Now I’m not making plans (I’m a big fat liar). I have surrendered to the 'Great We’ll See’ (bollocks I have) and am sitting on my hands and waiting for the visa-gods to anoint me (I’m jumping up and down and waving my hands around trying to get their attention).
It’s driving me insane.
I am not a patient person. Stubborn? Yes. Patient? No. Which makes for an interesting combination. Waiting becomes not an act of passive patience but one of persistent stubborn endurance. I rant and I rail and I stamp my feet like Veruca Salt on the inside, all the while maintaining a look of benign calm on the outside (well, a lot of the time…I have been known to stamp my feet in frustration, but normally only in front of Jeremy and my family).
At times it’s had the feeling of waiting in the rain for a bus, when you know it might be quicker to walk but you’ve waited too long to give up because the bus might be right around the corner. Although that’s not the best analogy because walking isn’t really an option – sitting down and crying is about the only option I can see and that’s not particularly constructive. Anyway, the bus is around the corner. I can see it (by standing in the middle of oncoming traffic and peeking around the corner). It’s sat there, with its driver, watching me in the rain and having a sneaky fag (Cigarette! That means Cigarette!) whilst obstinately waiting until it’s exactly the right time to move the 5 foot to the bus stop and open up the doors and take all my money.
I’m slightly concerned that by the time the bus doors open I’ll have gone completely loopy. The pressure is mounting. As usual, I’ve overestimated my mouth capacity and bitten off more than I can chew. The living out of suitcases and wedding planning and emigration and job searching and goodbyes and homelessness and missing Jeremy and hair-care are all mounting up and I wouldn’t be surprised if steam started coming out of my ears.
The problem is there’s no solution other than to suck it up and wait and hope that at the end of it all my mental faculties will still be intact. Oh and tell Jeremy every 5 minutes how fed up I am of waiting. That helps a little.
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