The 23rd of June 2016 was a dark day for my husband and me. We tried to joke about the referendum, as neither of us actually believed the outcome would be in favour of Brexit. We discussed what country to flee to in the event that it all went disastrously wrong, and settled on Canada. I ranted about how unfair it was that I didn’t get a vote, as a resident for 13 years and a taxpayer for 7 (after 6 years of higher education).
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.