The little red book that confirms my Britishness was put to the test this morning as we departed my other country of citizenship.
"How long will you be away?" asked the nice lady from the British Border Agency in a marked contrast to the stern cross examination we underwent last year as the officers attempted to prise some illegal immigration intent out of us.
We explained that we were really only here to visit our kids for a bit, but we might flit by again in a month or two for a day or so on our way back to Oz.
About then she noticed our French residency cards and told us with a hopeful laugh that she was ready to be adopted.
As the Eurostar departed we pinched ourselves as we often do at the surreality of our situation, wondering just how we came to be doing what we do, delighted that we are, tucked away our London Transport Oyster Cards and rummaged for some Metro Tickets that were yet to be validated.
What day is it?
Thursday?
Ah yes, this must be Paris.
"How long will you be away?" asked the nice lady from the British Border Agency in a marked contrast to the stern cross examination we underwent last year as the officers attempted to prise some illegal immigration intent out of us.
We explained that we were really only here to visit our kids for a bit, but we might flit by again in a month or two for a day or so on our way back to Oz.
About then she noticed our French residency cards and told us with a hopeful laugh that she was ready to be adopted.
As the Eurostar departed we pinched ourselves as we often do at the surreality of our situation, wondering just how we came to be doing what we do, delighted that we are, tucked away our London Transport Oyster Cards and rummaged for some Metro Tickets that were yet to be validated.
What day is it?
Thursday?
Ah yes, this must be Paris.
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