Is it strange that I nearly burst into tears at the end of my passport interview?
After the unnerving first question “do you know why you’re here?”, I got through twenty minutes of fairly random questioning of my personal life, worried that I might be failing because I’m not very good at remembering my parents’ dates and places of birth (I know that’s odd, I just have a very bad memory). He wasn’t even listening to my answers because several times he asked me something which I had just told him as part of the previous answer.
I doubt Brexit will have a significant impact on my material life. But in the extreme case of a hard Brexit, where bargaining-chip tactics prevail and then go awry, I could be forced to close my consulting business here, leave my three French kids and my French girlfriend.
In September 1987 I came to London to work as a Language Assistant. I immediately liked the ancestral land of my mother’s lineage (being Breton, my mother’s family came from here many centuries ago). They were Celts persecuted by Angles, Saxons, Danes and Jutes – my people already persecuted here so long before I was born. I think I’m starting to understand now a few decades after my arrival why my maternal ancestors left. This land episodically has a xenophobic phase.
My husband came to the UK because he was offered a bartender job at the TGI Fridays after he came third place in the European bartending final.