Did I mention I was British?

Two weeks ago, my brand spanking new British passport arrived. I was well chuffed. Thanks, Mum and Dad. The paper work was interesting, You can only get an ancestry British citizenship by

A) Having a father who was British at my birth (he's a Yank now, has been since the sixties) - By the way if you were born before 1980 you could only be British through your Dad not your Mum, interesting huh? So you need his birth certificate.

B) Having a mother who was married to your father. So you need their marriage certificate.

C) Having me. So you need your birth certificate.

Then you fill out a lot of scary forms and have someone who is "professional" counter sign your form saying they have known you for some number of years. In my case it was a friend from work who has a PhD in Urban Morphology, he gets to be called Dr. Jones. and that Dr. preface means he gets to co-sign my application. Better than the registered landscape architect I was going togo with, right?

Then you send all that off with your existing US passport (eek - I was without a passport for weeks!). I will get the US passport back because technically I am a dual citizen. After the required amount of time they send you a letter and tell you show up at a dodgy part of town (in my case Hannibal House at Elephant and Castle) where you have an interview and "prove" you are who you said you were. Couple of scary moments in the interview when they asked me my phone number. Shit, I've never known my phone number. I use my work number for everything because I can remember it. So I told the interviewer, I could never remember my mobile number and I could do parts of it and proceeded to ramble off some familiar sounding numbers. Apparently I got pretty close. Next slip up was when I started rattling off my Dad's birthday instead of my Mum's. Then I switch to my sisters in stead of My Mum. Ack, panic - was she the 6 or the 7, franticly counting the days between Christmas and 12th night which is the only way I can remember it. Oh, I'm fluffing this. Ask me about direct labour rates, gross or net contribution or what percentage of our net rev goes towards fringe benefits - don't ask me phone numbers and birthdays and expect an answer without the help of supporting documentation. Whew, they let me go and told me I would hear from them in 4 to 10 days.

Five days later I get a piece of paper at my home telling me to arrange a delivery, which I do for the next day at the office. Then I hang around near my desk or go to meetings clutching my mobile so the deliver company can reach me because I have to prove to the delivery boy that I am the to whom he should be delivering the package. That's it. Some sweaty bicycle delivery guy looks at me looks at my California drivers license then hands me an envelope. I rip it open hoping its the passport and not a rejection letter. It is! It is a pleathery red square-ish block with biometric chip and antennae (!?) and additional pages for those traveling folks. I'm in! I can go and live anywhere in the European Union. I don't have to get stopped, questioned and frisked at small airports in France. I can go to CUBA! I can go anywhere because the Queen says so inside the front cover.

Best of all I don't have to get another work permit because my first one runs out next week. So what have I done with my new found freedom? Nothing. I've taken the 168 bus from the Royal Free Hospital stop on Haverstock hill to Southhampton Row and then walked to Clerkenwell Road and left onto Hatton Garden to work. All I need now is a bowler hat and a black umbrella to be the perfect British worker bee.

To celebrate, I have begun using the words "crikey" and "bother" as often as possible in everyday speech.