Becoming a Brit

It only hurts a little when I think how difficult it must have been for my ancestors to find the money to come to America. I’m sure they had every intention of making the massive move, possibly giving up family, friends and stability, in order to better future generations (actually knowing my family, they were more likely running from the law). And here I am, some smart ass great great grandchild that has fallen in love with some boy from the old country and has to pay thousands of £££ to get a visa to move back to the continent they tried so hard to leave behind. I’m sure they are rolling their eyes about this one.

In order to stay in England I had to take a ‘life in the UK’ test. Simples you think? I’ve lived here for 5 years and worked in the east end for 4 of those and although I learn a new term most weeks thanks to my revolting friends and colleagues (last weeks was smeg, no it isn’t just a brand of appliances) I can make a cuppa with the best of ’em.

So cockey and confident I didn’t bother to look at the test until the day before when a colleague said, ‘hey that test is really difficult, I’m British and I failed.’ Well that started a wave- everyone in the office started taking a crack at it- you can too here
No one passed. None of those card carrying Brits knew what year women could divorce their husbands or how many days schools are open for. I was doomed


Even Einstein knew my frustration.

But luckily multiple choice was in my favour last Friday. I passed!!! Get out the bunting and cream teas- this Yankee Doodle is here to stay.

You lot let anyone in!


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