Greasy, ebony soot smudges on a sunburnt face; wrinkled, grass-stained clothing and hair that goes way beyond bedhead; you could definately say I'm not ready for my closeup. I suppose I could rationalise away this Dickension apparition staring blankly back at me; brand it a distortion of the filthy, shattered glass G. has propped up against the abandoned warehouse wall to discourage other night wanderers from entering. I examine the image, so foreign and distrubing, its reflection is of a person that days ago I would surely glance away from, eyes downcast and feeling sad, wondering how I could help. Unfortunately, now that mysterious person is me.
A sigh and a borrowed cigarette later, I keep reality at bay with a handful of (yes, legal, thank you, I am not that kind of girl) prescription medication and a warm bottle of tap water, all the sustenance on the morning's menu; luckily the lingering perfume of the previous evening's rubbish-bin-fireplace turns my stomach anyway, so I've no urge for food. With no hope of an improvement in my appearance, and realising I really don't care, my next thoughts are of Boo and G., both already seriously worrying me, the stress of the situation showing in their manner if not their actions. Not that I am handling the situation well by any means, but I fear my self-assumed position as team cheerleader and crisis chairwoman is a shaky one; have I got it in me to get us through this? I truly do fear the answer to this question, and know that G. is thinking the same; and poor, precious, little Boo, she doesn't understand, and she seems so shaken. So, what if we can't get through? Where will we end up, and truthfully, does anyone really care about two americans and a beagle who lost everything, everything in both ehe US and the UK (families included)! while waiting for their visa in England?
Friday, 19 December 2014
Saturday, 31 May 2014
So on we go...
I have totally revamped what I want this blog to be so have erased some posts that probably werent' read anyway as I never actively pursued followers. But here goes:
Today, Friday, should be a happy day. End of the workweek (a short workweek!) and time for parties. Only it is not like that with us, wow, it hasn't been for a very, very long time. We move up and down this ridiculous line that pulls us up and drags us back down. And all of it is bureaucratic and still no access to any kind of help in US or UK, the international 'gray' zone. Though all we want is to work and get out on our own.
For those of you who don't know, my husband and I lost both sets of parents: my mother and my father in law to cancer, and then shortly afterwards my mother in law and then my father of what seemed to be broken hearts. We then suffered multiple other setbacks after we tried to reach for our dream future and relocated to England from America. Suddenly all of our money and support was gone,we were supporting them we lost everything trying to ride it out and with not much help, and though it pains me to write it (again) we became literally homeless. We lost both family homes in New Jersey and our place in Oxford. Eventually our visa ran out and we had absolutely no where to go 'back home'. No one there had helped us through when things first went bad and there was no one there now. So we applied to the UK Home Office for a 'compassionate visa' given our rootless status and we waited. And waited. And waited. Friends here tried their best to help and gave us all they could and just when it seemed we really could hold on no longer, in any way, we begged again at the office of our St Albans MP Anne Main, to help facilitate our case and who went to bat for us via the new immigration service UKVI. We are so appreciative but even with her help we are at a standstill. A very cold and hungry standstill.
About several more months after Anne Main's office intervened, we heard from the UKVI, with what we thought was a notice that our visa could be here soon, 'here just fill out these papers, fill us in our your lives now that it has taken us almost 4 years in total and we will hopefully mail you your residence card finally'. We have been through this with the UKBA (before they were halved), have sent direct begging letters to the Prime Minister and Ms. May herself. No one answered us. In the beginning UKBA could have told us what to do, which may have halved this four year period, but who knows. All I know now is the MP's office intervenes regularly and UKVI doesnt often answer. And if they do, its only to refuse to expedite our paperwork due to my health. Which right about now is not very good. Or is it well? Sorry the stress seems to have affected my grammar.
Anwyay, here we wait. The loan has run out. So has any semblance of cash. The only thing I can force myself to think of is the worst thing I miss is proper tea, with milk...and sugar!
Keep us in your thoughts. If you know anyone looking for another good cause ask them to donate. Hopefully one day we will get through all this and reclaim our previous artistic lives. Right now I'd be happy for an artistic sandwich! ;p
Today, Friday, should be a happy day. End of the workweek (a short workweek!) and time for parties. Only it is not like that with us, wow, it hasn't been for a very, very long time. We move up and down this ridiculous line that pulls us up and drags us back down. And all of it is bureaucratic and still no access to any kind of help in US or UK, the international 'gray' zone. Though all we want is to work and get out on our own.
For those of you who don't know, my husband and I lost both sets of parents: my mother and my father in law to cancer, and then shortly afterwards my mother in law and then my father of what seemed to be broken hearts. We then suffered multiple other setbacks after we tried to reach for our dream future and relocated to England from America. Suddenly all of our money and support was gone,we were supporting them we lost everything trying to ride it out and with not much help, and though it pains me to write it (again) we became literally homeless. We lost both family homes in New Jersey and our place in Oxford. Eventually our visa ran out and we had absolutely no where to go 'back home'. No one there had helped us through when things first went bad and there was no one there now. So we applied to the UK Home Office for a 'compassionate visa' given our rootless status and we waited. And waited. And waited. Friends here tried their best to help and gave us all they could and just when it seemed we really could hold on no longer, in any way, we begged again at the office of our St Albans MP Anne Main, to help facilitate our case and who went to bat for us via the new immigration service UKVI. We are so appreciative but even with her help we are at a standstill. A very cold and hungry standstill.
About several more months after Anne Main's office intervened, we heard from the UKVI, with what we thought was a notice that our visa could be here soon, 'here just fill out these papers, fill us in our your lives now that it has taken us almost 4 years in total and we will hopefully mail you your residence card finally'. We have been through this with the UKBA (before they were halved), have sent direct begging letters to the Prime Minister and Ms. May herself. No one answered us. In the beginning UKBA could have told us what to do, which may have halved this four year period, but who knows. All I know now is the MP's office intervenes regularly and UKVI doesnt often answer. And if they do, its only to refuse to expedite our paperwork due to my health. Which right about now is not very good. Or is it well? Sorry the stress seems to have affected my grammar.
Anwyay, here we wait. The loan has run out. So has any semblance of cash. The only thing I can force myself to think of is the worst thing I miss is proper tea, with milk...and sugar!
Keep us in your thoughts. If you know anyone looking for another good cause ask them to donate. Hopefully one day we will get through all this and reclaim our previous artistic lives. Right now I'd be happy for an artistic sandwich! ;p
Thursday, 10 April 2014
Dear God
I always imagined that churches never did close, a sanctuary ever available to all and sundry. Visions of weary pilgrims in the Middle Ages, holding all night vigils, candles burning, incense hanging in fragrant clouds in the close, still air. Orphaned Victorian children and widowed mothers huddling, desperate, at the altar praying for refuge from the cold and damp, snowy Christmas Eves,worshippers packed to the rafters to celebrate the virgin birth; these were the images in my head as I gazed at the nearly one thousand hear old cathedral. Standing shivering in the graveyard, the giant yew trees dwarfing the darkening sky above, I could almost hear the choir singing. As ever, the enduring mizzle turned angry and the ground we stood on turned quickly to mud. We ran through the slippery mess to the large vestibule, forbiddingly guarded by a spiked wrought iron and wooden gate; not exactly a warm welcome, but we hadn't many choices. We hoped for the best and pushed on the gate. It creaked a spooky hello and we all shuffled into the embrace of the cold, damp stone enclosure. I snuggled closer to the wall to escape the wind and rain, an imposing wooden door stood in the middle of the open faced rocky womb. Was it to much to hope to find it open? Perhaps someone inside would be able to help us, maybe allow us to spend the night in the Lord's house? Disappointed we would be...
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