On Monday my mum and I battled 4 suitcases, each weighing 23kg exactly, up to Heathrow. Just getting there felt like a massive achievement - and it was won with a fair few suitcase-inflicted bruises. Of course it turned out that heaving suitcases onto train luggage racks was actually the easiest part of the day.
Next came wine and goodbyes at Terminal 5 with Helen and Sian, dear dear friends who love me enough to give up holiday for my farewell (and holiday is clearly worth much more than gold because holiday is sunshine and sunshine is the source of all life on the planet). The wine didn't help much on the emotion front.
So, bestowed with boarding passes and relieved of our gargantuan cases, mum and I crossed through that one-way street that is airport security.
Deep Breaths.
Topped potato wedges and beer in Giraffe.
Gossip Magazine.
Then the flight. I hate flying and my general solution is to get as drunk as acceptably possible so that turbulence just sort of melds with the general swirliness in my head. The only good things about flying are the distractions of 'free' alcohol and films. We watched 'An education', which is brilliant and the girl in it is 100% deserving of her Bafta. Unfortunately the film only lasted 2 hours at which point I was very ready to get off the plane and there were 4 long anxious can't-sleep-in-case-my-brain-power-is-needed-to-keep-plane-in-air hours left.
Then the final visa hurdle of getting past passport/visa control (missed out a whole section on mum's form and had to go to back of queue but that was the worst of it) and the reuniting with our bruise-inducing cases and then the triumphant steering of case-stacked-trolleys through the arrivals gate.
No Jeremy.
2 minutes later he appears looking rather sheepish as apparently he thought he'd choose that moment to go and take a ride on the escalator rather than waiting anxiously for his future bride to come through the doors.
Nice one.
Thankfully for Jeremy I saw the funny side.
Which pretty much brings us up to now. In the past 48 hours I've felt every emotion possible and more. Kind of like when you climb a mountain and the next aching day discover muscles you didn't know you had.
I'd be lying through my teeth if I said the past few days have been easy. The weight of the realities of moving countries has hit me and I'm exhausted in a way you can only be when you've been functioning on adrenalin and will-power only to cross the finish line and immediately collapse. There have been highlights though:
- Applying for the marriage license, the form had 2 columns with the right one for Jeremy and the left one for me and since he's left handed we filled it in simultaneously. Way too cute.
- Late night conversations where I'm reassured that Jeremy is the friend and support I need.
- Unpacking cases and realising that not only does all my stuff fit into the spare drawers / wardrobe, it also wont need to be packed up again any time soon.
- Reeses peanut butter cups.
The weather is bleak. Rainier than England on a rainy day bleak. In fact, think Willesden high street on a cold wet Monday trek to the tube and you have an approximation of the level of bleakness that the weather is welcoming me with.
But the house is warm and Jeremy is here and I don't have to say goodbye to my mum for a week.
No one ever said this would be easy.
Packing...packing...packed.
Today I have scaled a metaphorical mountain, completed a task of herculean proportions, achieved the impossible, a mammoth feat by all accounts...
...I've packed 3 suitcases all within the weight limit.
So now here I am, my life packed away, waiting to take my packed up life across the ocean.
And I'm feeling? Everything.
...I've packed 3 suitcases all within the weight limit.
So now here I am, my life packed away, waiting to take my packed up life across the ocean.
And I'm feeling? Everything.
Chickens crossing roads.
I recently told Jeremy of this hilarious idea I had for the 'going out' music at our wedding ceremony. Here it's fairly common for people to choose a slightly silly song for the outward walk and I thought it would raise a few ironic chuckles if we had (wait for it) 'Aint no mountain high enough.
If I could I'd get Diana Ross to pop up from the choir benches, but failing that a CD belting out 'Ain't no mountain high enough, Ain't no valley low enough (Say it again), Ain't no river wild enough, To keep me from yoooooooou' would do the job.
Jeremy did not get the joke.
J: "What's so funny about that"
H: "Because it's super cheesy but people will know we mean it in a tongue in cheek way and are kind of making fun of ourselves and our relationship"
J: "But there aren't any mountains between us - there's an ocean"
H: "Sigh" (whilst mentally crossing off idea of having Shania Twain's 'looks like we made it' for first dance)
I'm starting to realise, perhaps a little late, that Americans don't put their tongues in their cheeks. This is a problem for me, because my tongue lives in my cheek. Jeremy and I have had full on arguments arising from me making some offhand comment and him taking it completely seriously. OK the argument was on msn and, well, everyone knows msn and irony should never be mixed, but the point is the same.
I'm not saying that Americans aren't funny. Jeremy makes me laugh more than anyone. Granted it's almost always him making me laugh at me, but he's still pretty damn funny. But when it comes to wry, dry humour they are lost.
I think the root of this problem is that Americans do not possess the phrase 'taking the piss'. Say to an American 'don't worry, I'm only taking the piss' and they will glance uneasily downwards before writing it off as a weird Britishism and continuing to take offence or be confused at whatever they are having the piss taken out of them for.
The nearest translation I've found to taking the piss is 'kidding' or possibly 'taking the mickey' (but I'm not sure?). Frankly that's like decaffeinated coffee. Looks, smells, even tastes pretty much the same, but no kick.
For at the root of British humour (I'm including the Scots / Welsh and Irish here 'cause they're worse than we are) is a deep and dark cynicism. We don't kid, we take the piss. Ours is a humour that is not supposed to be buoyed by canned laughter.
Problem is, in America, it's either mistaken for rudeness or it just isn't understood and is taken completely literally.
A few days ago I asked Jeremy if he had named all his worms in his worm farm. This is funny a) because Jeremy is not a person who names worms. b) because who names worms? and c) if you did name worms, how would you be able to tell them apart anyway?
Jeremy's reply? "There are over 2000 of them."
I'm doomed.
If I could I'd get Diana Ross to pop up from the choir benches, but failing that a CD belting out 'Ain't no mountain high enough, Ain't no valley low enough (Say it again), Ain't no river wild enough, To keep me from yoooooooou' would do the job.
Jeremy did not get the joke.
J: "What's so funny about that"
H: "Because it's super cheesy but people will know we mean it in a tongue in cheek way and are kind of making fun of ourselves and our relationship"
J: "But there aren't any mountains between us - there's an ocean"
H: "Sigh" (whilst mentally crossing off idea of having Shania Twain's 'looks like we made it' for first dance)
I'm starting to realise, perhaps a little late, that Americans don't put their tongues in their cheeks. This is a problem for me, because my tongue lives in my cheek. Jeremy and I have had full on arguments arising from me making some offhand comment and him taking it completely seriously. OK the argument was on msn and, well, everyone knows msn and irony should never be mixed, but the point is the same.
I'm not saying that Americans aren't funny. Jeremy makes me laugh more than anyone. Granted it's almost always him making me laugh at me, but he's still pretty damn funny. But when it comes to wry, dry humour they are lost.
I think the root of this problem is that Americans do not possess the phrase 'taking the piss'. Say to an American 'don't worry, I'm only taking the piss' and they will glance uneasily downwards before writing it off as a weird Britishism and continuing to take offence or be confused at whatever they are having the piss taken out of them for.
The nearest translation I've found to taking the piss is 'kidding' or possibly 'taking the mickey' (but I'm not sure?). Frankly that's like decaffeinated coffee. Looks, smells, even tastes pretty much the same, but no kick.
For at the root of British humour (I'm including the Scots / Welsh and Irish here 'cause they're worse than we are) is a deep and dark cynicism. We don't kid, we take the piss. Ours is a humour that is not supposed to be buoyed by canned laughter.
Problem is, in America, it's either mistaken for rudeness or it just isn't understood and is taken completely literally.
A few days ago I asked Jeremy if he had named all his worms in his worm farm. This is funny a) because Jeremy is not a person who names worms. b) because who names worms? and c) if you did name worms, how would you be able to tell them apart anyway?
Jeremy's reply? "There are over 2000 of them."
I'm doomed.
Chair.
There's only so much you can write about a rocking chair. Weird as it may be. I just like rocking.
Bookcase.
In one week's time I will be living in the house in which I will own my first bookcase. I will own it soon because Jeremy owes me one from my birthday in October and, second to marrying him / no longer crossing oceans to see him etc etc, it's the thing I'm most excited about.
Ideally the bookcase will cover all walls of the living room and have one of those slide along ladders, so I can pretend to be Audrey Hepburn in Funny face. But really, as long as it's a bit more substantial than the Billy series at Ikea, I'm happy.
I know I sound more than a little nuts. But the thing is a bookcase equals a home for my books and my books equal me. I think I've already confessed on here that when I was a kid my mum got so worried about me not playing enough with other children that she hid my books (under the couch cushions - didn't take me long to find them). She may have had a point - my inner world when I was growing up was much more substantial and real to me than the outer world. But it didn't do me too much harm - I managed somewhere to learn social skills (possibly through reading about them in Malory Towers) and I made friends with people who had as much of an imagination as I did. Never mind that the rest of the kids thought we were bonkers - we got along just fine with our clogs and codes and secret languages (secret even to ourselves).
Reading is, to me, sanity. The peace some people find in music or hiking mountains or solving crosswords I find in reading. I don't know of any other time when I'm able to shut down the rest of my mind and worries and just focus on one thing.
Here are a few of the books that will be finding a well deserved home on my new shelves.
1. Narnia. While I define myself as 'Christian', the theology expressed through Lewis' allegorising in Narnia (particularly 'the last battle') best describes the way I see the world and the world beyond the world.
2. Rebecca. Gothically indulgent it may be, this is a story I never grow tired of.
3. Moontiger. This focuses on the power of memory and the idea that a remembered life does not happen in sequence. I stole my copy from a holiday home in Lanzarote - I couldn't bear to part with it... I'm hoping it was one of those 'take one, leave one' sort of bookcases, since I'm not the stealing kind.
4. Ghostwritten. A recent discovery and the first male author I've engaged with in a long time. Reads like a lesson in how to write, provided you're a genius - incredibly elegant and addictive.
5. Anna Karenina. The only book I read and loved at university (I studied English Lit...). I wrote a very hurried essay on it and the only book in my bibliography was errr 'Anna Karenina'... an academic low point all round, but an amazing novel.
6. The Sky is Everywhere. This is a young adult book about to be published in the UK by my friend Helen's publishing house...well, not her publishing house exactly but she 'found' the book and is editing it so gets all the credit from me at least. The book is one of the most engaging I've read. I've also just won major brownie points for including it. (Also just remembered that I don't actually own a copy... hint hint)
Of course there are more books. There are always more. And I don't really believe in these sorts of facebook 'interests and activities' lists. But as I repeat and repeat my 'Jeremy, Bookcase, Chair' mantra over and over, the significance of these books having a home is hard to overlook. I've already ordered Barbara Kingsolver's new novel to Jeremy's place for when I arrive. Gonna need some doses of sanity in those first few Boston days.
Ideally the bookcase will cover all walls of the living room and have one of those slide along ladders, so I can pretend to be Audrey Hepburn in Funny face. But really, as long as it's a bit more substantial than the Billy series at Ikea, I'm happy.
I know I sound more than a little nuts. But the thing is a bookcase equals a home for my books and my books equal me. I think I've already confessed on here that when I was a kid my mum got so worried about me not playing enough with other children that she hid my books (under the couch cushions - didn't take me long to find them). She may have had a point - my inner world when I was growing up was much more substantial and real to me than the outer world. But it didn't do me too much harm - I managed somewhere to learn social skills (possibly through reading about them in Malory Towers) and I made friends with people who had as much of an imagination as I did. Never mind that the rest of the kids thought we were bonkers - we got along just fine with our clogs and codes and secret languages (secret even to ourselves).
Reading is, to me, sanity. The peace some people find in music or hiking mountains or solving crosswords I find in reading. I don't know of any other time when I'm able to shut down the rest of my mind and worries and just focus on one thing.
Here are a few of the books that will be finding a well deserved home on my new shelves.
1. Narnia. While I define myself as 'Christian', the theology expressed through Lewis' allegorising in Narnia (particularly 'the last battle') best describes the way I see the world and the world beyond the world.
2. Rebecca. Gothically indulgent it may be, this is a story I never grow tired of.
3. Moontiger. This focuses on the power of memory and the idea that a remembered life does not happen in sequence. I stole my copy from a holiday home in Lanzarote - I couldn't bear to part with it... I'm hoping it was one of those 'take one, leave one' sort of bookcases, since I'm not the stealing kind.
4. Ghostwritten. A recent discovery and the first male author I've engaged with in a long time. Reads like a lesson in how to write, provided you're a genius - incredibly elegant and addictive.
5. Anna Karenina. The only book I read and loved at university (I studied English Lit...). I wrote a very hurried essay on it and the only book in my bibliography was errr 'Anna Karenina'... an academic low point all round, but an amazing novel.
6. The Sky is Everywhere. This is a young adult book about to be published in the UK by my friend Helen's publishing house...well, not her publishing house exactly but she 'found' the book and is editing it so gets all the credit from me at least. The book is one of the most engaging I've read. I've also just won major brownie points for including it. (Also just remembered that I don't actually own a copy... hint hint)
Of course there are more books. There are always more. And I don't really believe in these sorts of facebook 'interests and activities' lists. But as I repeat and repeat my 'Jeremy, Bookcase, Chair' mantra over and over, the significance of these books having a home is hard to overlook. I've already ordered Barbara Kingsolver's new novel to Jeremy's place for when I arrive. Gonna need some doses of sanity in those first few Boston days.
Jeremy.
So why am I moving countries for this guy?
It's not because of his love of warmth.
Or his imagination and flair for fashion.
Or the way he never cracks the bones in his fingers / toes / neck.
And it's certainly not because of how he recognises that eating super spicy food makes him ill and grumpy and therefore he doesn't do it.
It's because when it comes to Jeremy I stop writing.
Here's what I'm talking about:
Lately I've been sorting. It's a necessary preliminary and/or procrastinatory packing activity, to make sure that I make best use of the precious square foot of loft space my parents have bestowed upon me and to make sure that I don't end up treasuring forever bits of wrapping paper when I can't even remember their relevance (if there ever was one).
I am an emotional hoarder (I'm sure you are mightily surprised by that revelation). I attach significance to almost everything. I'm also a compulsive scribbler. All emotions, fears, dreams, random thoughts are recorded - in backs of books, middles of note-pads, multiple diaries kept for a few months and then forgotten - my entire life from age 10 is written down. So you'll see that sorting through all of this stuff is a) time consuming and b) embarrassing. My teenage voice makes me want to build a time machine so I can go back and give myself a smack and tell me to stop being so painfully introspective and sentimental.
Because of course I've moved on so much since then...
In amongst the angsty blush-worthy chronicles are also letters. Letters from ex boyfriends, from distant friends, cards from parents and grandparents, notes and scraps and scribbles that when added together plot my life and my people so accurately and substantially that voices and feelings push their way through the clouded recesses of memory to assert themselves with surprising potency.
And so I spent hours reading my life. It was all mixed up of course - no order whatsoever, but since when is life remembered chronologically? What stuck out for me, aside from the number of trees that sacrificed themselves for my histories, was how simple things became when I met Jeremy.
There are people reading this who have just choked on their breakfast.
Yes yes, I know that Jeremy and I have been anything but simple. I know there has been heartache - what do you expect for a relationship spanning 6 years, 3000 miles and 5 irritating hours of time-difference? But what I mean is that when it came to Jeremy all my scribblings stopped. Prior to Jeremy every relationship had been accompanied by a forest's worth of confusion, doubt and indecision. Even declarations of love had been fanciful and overblown, often aged with coffee and burnt around the edges to give that really authentic look (you think I'm kidding?). In my holiday diary the summer of Italy, I spent whole trees theorising about the tall Australian I regretted kissing in Sicily but my entry for the 5 days where I met Jeremy was 'Jeremy kissed me'.
When it came to Jeremy I stopped writing and started living.
Well, mostly. I'm still a Hannah after all.
Some person somewhere wrote that happiness writes white. I really hope they're wrong because I'd very much like to be happy and to continue writing.
Having said that, considering how corny the stopping writing/ starting living sentence is, I have an inkling they're 100% right and that happy people better hope they write white because they don't have any business writing at all. Forgive me - I promise not to go all saccharine smug married on you. I have more than enough cynicism to sustain me and America is guaranteed to give me excessive amounts of material. Let's just hope, for the sake of my marriage, that Jeremy stays out of print.
It's not because of his love of warmth.
Or his imagination and flair for fashion.
Or the way he never cracks the bones in his fingers / toes / neck.
And it's certainly not because of how he recognises that eating super spicy food makes him ill and grumpy and therefore he doesn't do it.
It's because when it comes to Jeremy I stop writing.
Here's what I'm talking about:
Lately I've been sorting. It's a necessary preliminary and/or procrastinatory packing activity, to make sure that I make best use of the precious square foot of loft space my parents have bestowed upon me and to make sure that I don't end up treasuring forever bits of wrapping paper when I can't even remember their relevance (if there ever was one).
I am an emotional hoarder (I'm sure you are mightily surprised by that revelation). I attach significance to almost everything. I'm also a compulsive scribbler. All emotions, fears, dreams, random thoughts are recorded - in backs of books, middles of note-pads, multiple diaries kept for a few months and then forgotten - my entire life from age 10 is written down. So you'll see that sorting through all of this stuff is a) time consuming and b) embarrassing. My teenage voice makes me want to build a time machine so I can go back and give myself a smack and tell me to stop being so painfully introspective and sentimental.
Because of course I've moved on so much since then...
In amongst the angsty blush-worthy chronicles are also letters. Letters from ex boyfriends, from distant friends, cards from parents and grandparents, notes and scraps and scribbles that when added together plot my life and my people so accurately and substantially that voices and feelings push their way through the clouded recesses of memory to assert themselves with surprising potency.
And so I spent hours reading my life. It was all mixed up of course - no order whatsoever, but since when is life remembered chronologically? What stuck out for me, aside from the number of trees that sacrificed themselves for my histories, was how simple things became when I met Jeremy.
There are people reading this who have just choked on their breakfast.
Yes yes, I know that Jeremy and I have been anything but simple. I know there has been heartache - what do you expect for a relationship spanning 6 years, 3000 miles and 5 irritating hours of time-difference? But what I mean is that when it came to Jeremy all my scribblings stopped. Prior to Jeremy every relationship had been accompanied by a forest's worth of confusion, doubt and indecision. Even declarations of love had been fanciful and overblown, often aged with coffee and burnt around the edges to give that really authentic look (you think I'm kidding?). In my holiday diary the summer of Italy, I spent whole trees theorising about the tall Australian I regretted kissing in Sicily but my entry for the 5 days where I met Jeremy was 'Jeremy kissed me'.
When it came to Jeremy I stopped writing and started living.
Well, mostly. I'm still a Hannah after all.
Some person somewhere wrote that happiness writes white. I really hope they're wrong because I'd very much like to be happy and to continue writing.
Having said that, considering how corny the stopping writing/ starting living sentence is, I have an inkling they're 100% right and that happy people better hope they write white because they don't have any business writing at all. Forgive me - I promise not to go all saccharine smug married on you. I have more than enough cynicism to sustain me and America is guaranteed to give me excessive amounts of material. Let's just hope, for the sake of my marriage, that Jeremy stays out of print.
Language etiquette 201
Following on from my beginners class on how-not-to-offend-the-English (generally and at my our wedding), there are a couple more points that have come to my attention that need addressing...
Yard. Please, please, I beg you, do not refer to my parents' garden as a yard. I know that's what you call them in America, I know that 'garden' to you means something along the lines of a vegetable patch, I know you're not intentionally causing grave offence, I know this. And yet whenever Jeremy says something like 'we're having the reception in your parents' yard' (usually in budget incredulity), I feel like throttling him, and I'm pretty sure my mum would bear a life-time grudge against any American that says such a thing (she bears serious grudges does my mum). Why is this? It's because 'yard' in 'English' means 'scrappy patch of land', often concreted and fit only for broken-down cars and rubbish bins (trash cans). I'm serious about this one - put it to long term memory please - it would not go down well.
Pants. Mean underwear. No exceptions. Any reference to pants will receive strange strange looks while people smile and edge away. My grandma may give you a slap around the face.
Cider. Is of the 'hard' variety, always. Non-hard cider is apple juice. The cider at the wedding will probably taste vaguely of manure, be non-sparkling and about 7%. None of this ciderjack or woodchuck crap. I'm a Somerset girl and I know my cider. You will learn.
Fag. If someone says they're going off to 'have a fag', don't have a fit (unless it's because no semi intelligent person should be smoking these days and it's gross gross gross), they're off to have a cigarette. Please smack them for me and tell them they're a muppet.
Scampi. You guys getting this one wrong isn't gonna upset any English people, in fact your perturbation at what will be placed before you will probably cause mild amusement. Scampi in the UK is breaded, fried prawns (shrimp) - no garlic butter in sight.
OK I'm done on the lessons for now. Let me know if there are any points you think the English folks need to know so as to avoid a second revolutionary war in our garden.
In other news, I'm moving to the states on the 22nd Feb and we're getting legally married on the 1st of March. Don't do things by halves, me.
Yard. Please, please, I beg you, do not refer to my parents' garden as a yard. I know that's what you call them in America, I know that 'garden' to you means something along the lines of a vegetable patch, I know you're not intentionally causing grave offence, I know this. And yet whenever Jeremy says something like 'we're having the reception in your parents' yard' (usually in budget incredulity), I feel like throttling him, and I'm pretty sure my mum would bear a life-time grudge against any American that says such a thing (she bears serious grudges does my mum). Why is this? It's because 'yard' in 'English' means 'scrappy patch of land', often concreted and fit only for broken-down cars and rubbish bins (trash cans). I'm serious about this one - put it to long term memory please - it would not go down well.
Pants. Mean underwear. No exceptions. Any reference to pants will receive strange strange looks while people smile and edge away. My grandma may give you a slap around the face.
Cider. Is of the 'hard' variety, always. Non-hard cider is apple juice. The cider at the wedding will probably taste vaguely of manure, be non-sparkling and about 7%. None of this ciderjack or woodchuck crap. I'm a Somerset girl and I know my cider. You will learn.
Fag. If someone says they're going off to 'have a fag', don't have a fit (unless it's because no semi intelligent person should be smoking these days and it's gross gross gross), they're off to have a cigarette. Please smack them for me and tell them they're a muppet.
Scampi. You guys getting this one wrong isn't gonna upset any English people, in fact your perturbation at what will be placed before you will probably cause mild amusement. Scampi in the UK is breaded, fried prawns (shrimp) - no garlic butter in sight.
OK I'm done on the lessons for now. Let me know if there are any points you think the English folks need to know so as to avoid a second revolutionary war in our garden.
In other news, I'm moving to the states on the 22nd Feb and we're getting legally married on the 1st of March. Don't do things by halves, me.
Pebbles and visas
On Tuesday everything fell quiet. The VIIIIISAAA screech finally FINALLY fell silent and I am now in possession of a genuine get-me-into-America fiancée visa. For some reason I'm rather green in the photograph. Maybe that's part of the process of becoming an Alien.
And I felt? Relieved, yes, but primarily I felt tired. Like the end of a race where I've just about crawled over the finish line. I'm ignoring at this point that there's a whole other process to be undertaken once married to achieve a temporary green card [note the use of the word temporary - I wont be a permanent green card holder until we've completed 2 years of marriage]. I'm also ignoring the fact that I haven't ran a race since I was about 12 so I can't really claim much authority on crossing finishing lines. Either way, my immediate response to receiving the visa was to fall asleep, only I'd had the HPV vaccine that morning and was a little worried about dying so I didn't let myself. No dances, no shrieks of joy, just an intense fatigue.
I have since mustered a few smiles, and every time I try and remember what I'm supposed to be worrying about and all I can come up with is painting pebbles, my heart does do a little leap...
...which brings me on to painting pebbles...
After much wedding magazine / Martha Stewart consultation, I decided it'd be a good idea to do pebbles as place-names. No faffing about with sticking bits of ribbon on lace on card (and thus adhering to my 4 core-wedding-values) and also they could double as favours...
...I should state here (if you haven't already guessed) that I don't believe in 'favours'. Seems to me they're just another trick to up the budget, plus they're not a true English tradition, more an imported one akin to Jelly Belly or phrases such as 'what's up'. And really I think guests should be satisfied with a meal / alcohol / dancing and the gift of sharing in the happiest day of our lives (blah blah blah) without being given a present each on top of all of that...
Anyway, off I went to Whitsands bay, aka most-beautiful-beach-in-cornwall, and collected a metric ton of pebbles and then painstakingly painted them with each and every guest's name. It took hours. And when I'd finished? I decided I didn't like how I'd done them and washed it all off.
I also stamped my feet more than a few times in frustration.
Think I may have violated a few of the core values.
So, back to square one. I'm still determined to have pebbles though, if only because I've now gone out and bought 4 big bags of fancy ones. They will look good. They will. They will.
Tippex is the answer.
Trust me.
And I felt? Relieved, yes, but primarily I felt tired. Like the end of a race where I've just about crawled over the finish line. I'm ignoring at this point that there's a whole other process to be undertaken once married to achieve a temporary green card [note the use of the word temporary - I wont be a permanent green card holder until we've completed 2 years of marriage]. I'm also ignoring the fact that I haven't ran a race since I was about 12 so I can't really claim much authority on crossing finishing lines. Either way, my immediate response to receiving the visa was to fall asleep, only I'd had the HPV vaccine that morning and was a little worried about dying so I didn't let myself. No dances, no shrieks of joy, just an intense fatigue.
I have since mustered a few smiles, and every time I try and remember what I'm supposed to be worrying about and all I can come up with is painting pebbles, my heart does do a little leap...
...which brings me on to painting pebbles...
After much wedding magazine / Martha Stewart consultation, I decided it'd be a good idea to do pebbles as place-names. No faffing about with sticking bits of ribbon on lace on card (and thus adhering to my 4 core-wedding-values) and also they could double as favours...
...I should state here (if you haven't already guessed) that I don't believe in 'favours'. Seems to me they're just another trick to up the budget, plus they're not a true English tradition, more an imported one akin to Jelly Belly or phrases such as 'what's up'. And really I think guests should be satisfied with a meal / alcohol / dancing and the gift of sharing in the happiest day of our lives (blah blah blah) without being given a present each on top of all of that...
Anyway, off I went to Whitsands bay, aka most-beautiful-beach-in-cornwall, and collected a metric ton of pebbles and then painstakingly painted them with each and every guest's name. It took hours. And when I'd finished? I decided I didn't like how I'd done them and washed it all off.
I also stamped my feet more than a few times in frustration.
Think I may have violated a few of the core values.
So, back to square one. I'm still determined to have pebbles though, if only because I've now gone out and bought 4 big bags of fancy ones. They will look good. They will. They will.
Tippex is the answer.
Trust me.
Getting vaccinations in Devon and the difficulties that ensue
Today I had the second instalment of the HPV vaccine. You'll remember the first one of course - it was the same day I shelled out £330 to be told I was a girl. Now, I had assumed that getting the second vaccination would be easy.
As usual, I was wrong.
Behold the 30 steps to getting my second vaccination:
1. Asked NHS doctor in London if I could get the vaccination at my local doctors (thus avoiding extortionate private fees). She said yes and wrote me a prescription. (Visit no. 1 to doctor)
2. Booked appointment for vaccination at my doctors' in London for same morning as I was planning on leaving London forever.
3. Turned up for vaccination, with multiple leaving-london-on-11am-train bags. (Visit no. 2 to doctor)
4. Asked by nurse if I had the syringe with me.
5. Huh?
6. Told by nurse that I needed to take my prescription to the chemist and they'd give me the vaccine syringe which I'd then bring with me to the doctors' for sticking into me.
7. No time as needed to catch train to Devon so decided to just get it done in local town.
8. In Dibley, called local doctor (in neighbouring village...we'll call it Dobley) and asked if possible to schedule appointment to have vaccine. Was told they'd phone me back.
9. Called Dobley pharmacy and asked how long it'd take for them to get in vaccine. 2 days.
10. Went to pharmacy to drop off prescription only to be instantly recognised as girl-causing-confusion-in-village and given note by doctors' surgery who apparently had been trying to contact me (surgery in UK means something like clinic I think) telling me they can't do this particular vaccine.
11. Huh?
12. Go to Dobley surgery to tell them I can get the vaccine and all I need from them is someone to stick it in my arm. Still told they can't do it and told to go to hospital in a slightly bigger neighbouring town. (Visit no. 3 to doctor)
13. Go to hospital and wait for ages to speak to a nurse. Explain predicament. Am told if I bring syringe with me next week they will be happy to administer jab. (Visit no.4 to doctor)
14. Phew.
15. Drop off vaccine prescription at (different) pharmacy
16. Spend weekend worrying pharmacy will have forgotten to refrigerate vaccine and I'll die of somethingorother.
17. Collect (refrigerated) vaccine and go back to hospital. (Visit no. 5 to doctor)
18. Wait for an hour
19. Realise I should have registered with the reception when I went in so waiting all for nothing. Look sheepishly at my mum (who was sat waiting with me, of course). Register. Wait.
20. Speak to nurse (different nurse than in step 13.) who instantly knows me as girl-causing-confusion and tells me they can't actually give me the vaccine because they haven't had the training. Sits me in a corner and says she'll make a phone-call to figure out who can give me the vaccine.
21. Sit for an hour listening to various people behind nearby curtain explaining their problems to various nurses. Apparently it's a bad-blood-day. Think this means they're struggling to take blood from people.
22. Nurse gives me phone and I speak to a vaccination team in Exeter who tell me that I need to get the OK from my GP. Explain my GP is in London and I need to have vaccine in Devon. Told to speak to local surgery (the one in Dobley). Go to leave, feeling distinct sense of impending doom.
23. Cry.
24. Fail to cry in secret. Nurse sees and shepherds me back to my corner and says she'll phone the surgery for me.
25. Nurse phones surgery and upsets various receptionists and doctors with her stressed-but-highly-efficient-no-time-for-niceties manner.
26. Nurse hands me phone. Speak to now-irritated doctor to explain situation.
26. Doctor agrees to OK a nurse in Dobley surgery to do vaccine, but first I have to register.
26. Go to surgery and register as a temporary resident and make appointment (visit no. 6 to doctor)
27. Cajole Jess into driving me to doctors' for appointment.
28. Show up for appointment. Realise I have to pay £20 to be given vaccine (not essential therefore not free but still cheaper than private). Send Jess to cash machine. (Visit no. 7 to doctor)
29. Nurse is unsure about vaccine as has never given it before. Horrible moment when I think she's going to say she can't do it. Nurse figures out she just needs to shake and stick.
30. Ouch.
So there you have it. Seven visits to the doctor later and I am finally 2/3 of the way towards being vaccinated against a virus which if I'm gonna get it I probably already have it. I am also now infamous amongst the medical world of Devon.
There's a lesson here: assume nothing, explain everything and if you need to stay longer in London to get something done, do, because it's gonna take 1000 times longer anywhere else. Especially in Devon.
As usual, I was wrong.
Behold the 30 steps to getting my second vaccination:
1. Asked NHS doctor in London if I could get the vaccination at my local doctors (thus avoiding extortionate private fees). She said yes and wrote me a prescription. (Visit no. 1 to doctor)
2. Booked appointment for vaccination at my doctors' in London for same morning as I was planning on leaving London forever.
3. Turned up for vaccination, with multiple leaving-london-on-11am-train bags. (Visit no. 2 to doctor)
4. Asked by nurse if I had the syringe with me.
5. Huh?
6. Told by nurse that I needed to take my prescription to the chemist and they'd give me the vaccine syringe which I'd then bring with me to the doctors' for sticking into me.
7. No time as needed to catch train to Devon so decided to just get it done in local town.
8. In Dibley, called local doctor (in neighbouring village...we'll call it Dobley) and asked if possible to schedule appointment to have vaccine. Was told they'd phone me back.
9. Called Dobley pharmacy and asked how long it'd take for them to get in vaccine. 2 days.
10. Went to pharmacy to drop off prescription only to be instantly recognised as girl-causing-confusion-in-village and given note by doctors' surgery who apparently had been trying to contact me (surgery in UK means something like clinic I think) telling me they can't do this particular vaccine.
11. Huh?
12. Go to Dobley surgery to tell them I can get the vaccine and all I need from them is someone to stick it in my arm. Still told they can't do it and told to go to hospital in a slightly bigger neighbouring town. (Visit no. 3 to doctor)
13. Go to hospital and wait for ages to speak to a nurse. Explain predicament. Am told if I bring syringe with me next week they will be happy to administer jab. (Visit no.4 to doctor)
14. Phew.
15. Drop off vaccine prescription at (different) pharmacy
16. Spend weekend worrying pharmacy will have forgotten to refrigerate vaccine and I'll die of somethingorother.
17. Collect (refrigerated) vaccine and go back to hospital. (Visit no. 5 to doctor)
18. Wait for an hour
19. Realise I should have registered with the reception when I went in so waiting all for nothing. Look sheepishly at my mum (who was sat waiting with me, of course). Register. Wait.
20. Speak to nurse (different nurse than in step 13.) who instantly knows me as girl-causing-confusion and tells me they can't actually give me the vaccine because they haven't had the training. Sits me in a corner and says she'll make a phone-call to figure out who can give me the vaccine.
21. Sit for an hour listening to various people behind nearby curtain explaining their problems to various nurses. Apparently it's a bad-blood-day. Think this means they're struggling to take blood from people.
22. Nurse gives me phone and I speak to a vaccination team in Exeter who tell me that I need to get the OK from my GP. Explain my GP is in London and I need to have vaccine in Devon. Told to speak to local surgery (the one in Dobley). Go to leave, feeling distinct sense of impending doom.
23. Cry.
24. Fail to cry in secret. Nurse sees and shepherds me back to my corner and says she'll phone the surgery for me.
25. Nurse phones surgery and upsets various receptionists and doctors with her stressed-but-highly-efficient-no-time-for-niceties manner.
26. Nurse hands me phone. Speak to now-irritated doctor to explain situation.
26. Doctor agrees to OK a nurse in Dobley surgery to do vaccine, but first I have to register.
26. Go to surgery and register as a temporary resident and make appointment (visit no. 6 to doctor)
27. Cajole Jess into driving me to doctors' for appointment.
28. Show up for appointment. Realise I have to pay £20 to be given vaccine (not essential therefore not free but still cheaper than private). Send Jess to cash machine. (Visit no. 7 to doctor)
29. Nurse is unsure about vaccine as has never given it before. Horrible moment when I think she's going to say she can't do it. Nurse figures out she just needs to shake and stick.
30. Ouch.
So there you have it. Seven visits to the doctor later and I am finally 2/3 of the way towards being vaccinated against a virus which if I'm gonna get it I probably already have it. I am also now infamous amongst the medical world of Devon.
There's a lesson here: assume nothing, explain everything and if you need to stay longer in London to get something done, do, because it's gonna take 1000 times longer anywhere else. Especially in Devon.
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