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Swings and roundabouts.


There’s something to be said for doing everything by the book. But it’s also a good idea to check which book.

I’m always thrilled when I see photos of Her appear on my Facebook newsfeed or messenger thread, but one that I was particularly happy to see was the one of Her with Her daughter, posing with the bulky envelope that I’d posted a few days earlier, containing all my documents for the visa application.
The relief and anticipation was obvious in their excited smiles and I’m sure it was mirrored in my own expression as I happily Skyped them to celebrate starting the final stage of the tortuous journey that had led us here.
All She had to do now was make an appointment with the British consular people at the embassy in Chicago and then travel there to present their application. As far as we could tell (following multiple re-checking of all the UKBA and Home Office websites to ensure we had included every last scrap of documentation they required) the rest would be a formality and the visas should be issued the same day.

And that wasn’t the only good news we’d had that week either, although it didn’t start out too well.

She had still not managed to sell Her huge wooden bed, something we were counting on to help finance their flights over here, but She at least had Her car to sell.
Her generous host at the lake house, a retired law enforcement officer who now worked for a security firm, said that he’d take the car into work for their mechanic to look at, with a view to buying it for the business.
This was indeed good news as She was hoping to get $1500 for it, which would go a long way towards buying plane tickets.

Plus the fact a generous cousin of Hers had donated $1000 to a GoFundMe appeal that She had set up online as a last desperate attempt to raise money, gave us hope that it was all going according to plan.

Then the bad news.
The chassis on the car was badly rusted and it was now only saleable as scrap.

Oh come on Universe, that’s below the belt!

So, no money for the bed and a much lower price for the car, along with the fact that She’d had to pay out over a thousand dollars to settle a debt She had thought already cleared (another case of The Idiot reneging on his responsibilities) left us pretty much broke after paying for the visas, (£885 each at time of writing) even after I had taken out a loan for the deposit on a flat and furniture to put in it.
At this point another of the guardian angels, who seemed to be following our story so closely, stepped in and casually swept the obstacle aside.

I had stayed in touch with the aunts and uncles on my mother’s side of the family (mum died when I was a child) ever since I had reconnected with them in my twenties and had been talking on the phone to mum’s sister Jane, who had been following the tale of our relationship and it’s complications with interest.
I’d got to the wretched point in the conversation where I was going to have to ask her to lend me some money and I was dreading it.
But she saved me even that awkward moment by simply saying;
“Give me your address, I’ll send you the money today.”

To say I nearly burst into tears would only be inaccurate in that it contains the word “nearly”, and I sniffed and snuffled my gratitude at her for the next few minutes, arranging that she would actually transfer the money straight into my bank account that day.
And, bar a frustrating three hour phone marathon with various bank call centre sadism experts, the money was transferred to Her bank in America a couple of days later.

Phew! Relief, with a side-order of elation and emotional exhaustion.
We were on the way.
I made the money transfer on the phone from work at about ten in the morning and told Her when I called Her at lunchtime.

By my calculation, that means I was happy for three hours forty five minutes.

Checking my phone as I walked to the car I saw She had messaged me sometime earlier:
– They should take down that website, it’s completely fucked us!
My heart pounding, hands shaking, I ran to the car and called Her;
“What’s wrong, what’s happened?”
“All the information is out of date, they changed the procedures and haven’t updated the websites.”
I could hear the hopeless anger in Her voice and my stomach sank.

What more could they do to keep us apart?

In a nutshell, and to prevent me from becoming incandescent with rage all over again, what it boiled down to was this;
Except for the (incomplete) list of required documents and price of the visas themselves, almost all the information we had from all the official sources (including the nice lady at the immigration consultants who gave all the free advice, remember her?) was incorrect, irrelevant or out of date.
Including the most crucial part, taking all the documentation to Chicago.

You’ll like this…

It now all had to be sent (along with previously unmentioned additional paperwork which I had to post to Her in the States) to…are you ready for this?… fucking Sheffield!
Yes, Sheffield, that Sheffield, the one in Yorkshire.
Because that’s where the UKBA hang out, waiting to pass judgement on whether or not people get to be together.

Not only that, but She and Her daughter had to make the two hour drive to Detroit, where a storefront franchise for Homeland Security would “do biometrics”, whatever that means (digital fingerprints, photos, etc) which all had to go in with the rest of the small rainforest of paper She would finally post to….fucking Sheffield!

I apologise, I tend to get somewhat over-excited whilst discussing this part of the story.
Rest assured I had more than one lengthy and possibly not overly polite “chat” with various nonplussed members of the embassy immigration department, regarding advice on what they should do with their website and what I thought of the “service” they allegedly provided.
After which I ranted the whole infuriating story at my long-suffering sister on the phone, then sat in my room and cried for a bit.

If you go to the Home Office visa website now, you’ll notice that it has an obvious red banner across the top of it which reads;


Well about bloody time too.

If nothing else good came out of this whole sorry episode, I’d like to think that my “feedback” may have given the powers that be enough of a prod to actually do something and save any other poor victims of the faceless bureaucratic system the stress and frustration we went through.

So, we started all over again.


All aboard the roller coaster.



I kept telling myself that the Universe was supposedly looking after us, but sometimes unfolding events made it hard to hold onto that thought.

At first, it seemed as if things had begun unravelling almost immediately She returned home, starting with Her job.

She had worked tirelessly and with little or no thanks for an ex-partner, practically running his business for him for eight years and he had treated Her appallingly the whole time. But that was nothing to what he had in store when She got home from our holiday together.

Within a week of Her getting home She had rung me and said that She had been called for a meeting with The Idiot (our own term of endearment for him) and casually added that; “I think he might be going to try and fire me.”


Apparently while She’d been away he’d been interrogating the rest of the staff, (all of whom are Her friends) trying to find out what She was doing in England and generally poking his nose in where it didn’t belong. She took this to be a sign of his intention to make our lives as difficult as possible, bearing in mind that we were anticipating a long wait while She saved up her wages to pay for visas and plane tickets and She would need every last dollar She could earn in the meantime.

If She got fired, She lost Her income, Her medical insurance (when The Idiot remembered to pay it, that is)  and the house She and Her daughter lived in, accommodation being part of Her employment.
Yet She seemed strangely upbeat and unconcerned as She headed into the meeting, saying She’d call me back soon.

I was expecting a long, anxious wait (the thought that I once considered an hour or so a “long, anxious wait” almost amuses me now) but She was back in less than twenty minutes, for all the world sounding like someone who’d just had a pleasant afternoon chat with a friend.
Even when She said; “Oh well, looks like I’ve been fired.” and my stomach turned over, even then I could hear the smile in Her voice.

“How can you be so calm about it, I’d be frantic?”
Don’t you see, he’s done us a favour?”
– {dumbly, stunned} “What do you mean, how are you going to live?”

Of course I’d fallen into what would become my default state in these situations – blind panic and instant fear that everything was crashing down around our ears, just as we’d found each other – whereas She, with Her usual serene calm, had already seen a light at the other end of the tunnel
And it looked like it might not actually be a train coming the other way for once.

She cheerfully explained that as a counter to his paltry month’s wages as severance, She would be demanding of his lawyer the rather more appropriate sum of $10,000.
Enough for Her and Her daughter to finance their move to England far, far sooner than we’d imagined.

Now that may seem like a big leap, but you’ll have to take my word for it when I tell you, he was getting a good deal in more ways than one. He would be better off with Her out of the picture altogether, the quicker the better in fact.

Long, despicable story short:
The lawyer finally made a “final offer” of about $5000.
She was to be out of the house by the end of September, a month hence.
They would continue to live there free of charge until evicted.
She would sell as many of their possessions as possible and store the rest – bar essential clothes, a few personal items and toys – and move in with a good friend prior to travelling across the ocean and into my arms and a new life.

Looking back now, hindsight sniggering behind its grubby little hand as usual, it all seemed like a dream come true.
We would be together in no time and everyone would live happily ever after.

Except of course, only imaginary fairy tales are that simple…