Saturday, 11 July 2009

And the world keeps turning

Mrs S and I have finally despatched all the details requested for our permanent residency applications by courier. Personally I will be ecstatically happy if the nice person (You are a very nice person aren't you? Please please prove me right) at the London Visa office ticks our boxes and says 'Welcome to Canada' without another request for (yet) more information. If they don't, well, I've got a couple of fall back options under which we are entitled to apply. I'm that determined.

Notwithstanding, the whole house seems a little lighter this morning. A shadow on our lives has lifted a little, and the air of oppressive anxiety which has characterised the last six months has mostly evaporated. It's all very well working here on temporary visa's, but you're so restricted in what you can actually do for a living. Most potential employers won't even look at you unless you're a permanent resident or citizen. We also have the additional worry of steering clear of possible confrontations, as any less than amicable brush with officialdom might see us out on our ears. Our position here feels that fragile.

All of which is a major frustration, but there you go. We have documented skills, we're both keen and highly adaptable, yet it's enough to try the proverbial saints patience sometimes when people turn around and give you that apologetic look and say "Sorry". Yet the world keeps turning and we will (and must) turn with it. Going back to the UK is not an option. British Columbia is the family home now. I've decided.

Thinking about our part of BC, I can't but agree that it is the best place on Earth. Terrain wise the countryside rather makes me think about a gentrified and improved Scotland, without the Midges. There are quite a few old Scots families over here, as they were the first wave of migrants in the 17 and 1800's. The climate is temperate, not too hot or cold. The sun shines when it isn't raining or snowing, and there's little of that awful unremitting and depressing greyness that characterises England's weather. Apart from the local Mossies (You can almost hear the little sods shouting "Hey guys!" "Fresh meat!" whenever I take an evening stroll with my dog) making a meal of my tender flesh every August and September, it's a wonderful place.

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