This week has proved to be a trial of patience as our letting agency has decided that NOW is the time to begin repairs on our flat.  When they became aware we were moving, they took a sudden interest in addressing a number of the issues we brought to their attention previously, some from when we moved in TWO YEARS AGO.  Suddenly, our phones are ringing every morning with some contractor or maintenance man asking for an appointment to be made, as Leaders letting agency has told them they need to fix something in our flat.

Yesterday morning Mark called me and told me to be up and dressed as someone was coming around to check something in the flat , despite insistence it wasn’t a good time.  Let me ask you: have YOU ever stood in the doorway, having a contraction, while trying to carry on a conversation with a maintenance man about damp?  No. No you have not.  It’s not pleasant, by the way.  But at the end of the day, it’s not the maintenance man’s fault, and being rude to him would prove nothing.  So last night I emailed Leaders letting agency.  I don’t believe I was over the top rude, but I did make it clear that, chances were, we would still be here when the baby arrived and I was not going to work a newborn’s schedule around noisy and intrusive maintenance.

What really burns me about the situation is we gave them a long list of things that would need attending to when we first moved in August 2008. In fact, it was a list produced AT THEIR REQUEST.  Nothing ever came of anything that we listed for them.  Then, every 3 months or so when they come around to inspect the property, we brought up our concerns again and again, most of which were never addressed.  Now that they know they have to con someone else into renting the flat shortly, they have a bug up their collective asses to finally do something about the issues we outlined almost two years ago.

To this, I say no.

This seems to be a huge problem with a lot of businesses in the UK: sheer lack of customer service.  From what I hear from other people, they too are not happy with their letting agencies and the service they’ve received as well.  It’s almost as if certain industries got together and decided to just suck equally instead of actually trying to get renters / clients via good service.  And that’s where Leaders is: they don’t need to be the best, they just need to suck less than the worst in the industry.  Such an attitude towards people who throw hundreds of pounds a month at you for a service is piss poor, to say the least.

In my purse I carry with me a piece of paper.  The paper is ragged, worn, and dog-eared at the edges.   I received the letter on the 28th of November, 2009 from the UK Border Agency, confirming they have received my Indefinite Leave to Remain visa application, and the letter told me my reference number.  I’ve had this letter with me every day since then, every day for the last seven months.

Numerous times I called to check the status of my application, and the paper would be wrought in my hands, or scribbled upon as I anxiously waded through the options on the telephone, hoping to get through to the right people… hoping to have an answer.

The nerves came from a payment issue.  By February my application still had not been processed.  At this time, a fraudster took it upon himself to withdraw hundreds of pounds of my money from my bank account via paypal, and my bank instinctively canceled my debit card… the same debit card whose details were in the unprocessed application.

I called to give them new details, only to my horror they stated they would not be able to amend anything on my application.  So I was left to ask the only question which mattered:  What will happen when you try to process the payment?  The answer?  The application would be failed.

It was at this point I had to hand the phone over to my husband, as I could no longer breathe.  Image after image ran through my mind, scenarios of what my life would look like if I was suddenly not allowed to stay in the country legally.  I thought about losing my job and with it, my right to maternity leave. I thought about having to leave the country in order to apply again, and spending time away from my husband.  I thought about what it would look like to lose the flat in which we lived, because we would no longer be able to afford the rent if I lost my job.

The stress was unlike any I had ever felt before.  I cried on the couch, shaking with fear over what this meant for my future, and the future of our budding little family.  At the same time, I felt the overwhelming guilt that the stress I was feeling wasn’t healthy for the baby, at the time 4 months along.  But I couldn’t stop.  I couldn’t compose myself long enough to answer any of the questions Mark was trying to ask, I couldn’t even hear them being asked.  It felt as though this little life I had managed to built for myself and Mark over the last two years was going to be taken away from me.

Once I was able to, I messaged an immigration advisor I knew through an immigration board.  She gave me her number and I called, crying, that this was the worst case scenario.  But it wasn’t, as she told me.  She told me what I needed to do, that it would be sent back and I would appeal it, that it happens all the time.  I don’t honestly know what I would’ve done that day had I not had that conversation, for someone who knew the ropes to tell me it would be okay, that I wouldn’t lose my job or have to reapply.  The thank yous I have given do not adequately describe the gratitude I feel for having someone out there say it was all going to be okay.

I sent a letter.  I sent a letter to the Border Agency with a money order for the fee amount, explaining the situation and begging them to attach the money order to my application.  I then waited.  I waited several months, calling them to try to get some kind of update, any indication my money order letter was a success.  And in my hands was the original letter they sent me months ago.  Names and call dates written on it, the paper thinned at the creases where it had been folded time and time again, my application number standing off the page, a number I practically knew by heart.

May rolled around and I had still not heard anything.  My husband and I contacted the local Member of Parliament, who agreed to contact the Agency on our behalf.  We wrote two letters of formal complaint, and I sent half a dozen emails.  May turned to June, and still nothing.

Then today, as I went to the door to open it for a friend, I noticed I had a package.  I brought it inside and sat it down as we talked.  Glancing at it, I saw it was postmarked from Croydon, and suddenly I knew what it was.  I ripped it open, and inside was the binder containing everything I had worked so hard to collect and assemble over the last two years.  It was a record of my life, my marriage certificate, proof of where I lived and mail throughout the two year period proving it. It was a declaration: I exist, I live here, I have made a life for myself.

I opened the binder and found my passport beneath a letter from the Border Agency stating the application’s approval.  Nervously, I found the large stamp they placed in the back: Residence Permit.  I was granted the ability to remain in the country for an indefinite period of time.  The song and dance was over, the music stopped playing, and we could all finally go home.

Now I’ve removed the original letter from the Border Agency, dated the 28th of November, 2009, from my purse.  I no longer need to carry it, no longer need my application number close to hand, no longer need to stress the already worn fibers of the page between my fingers in yet another blood pressure raising phone call.  I finally have the visa.

I finally have it.

I have something to confess.  As excited as I was to finish the year off at university, and as pumped as I was to finally be away from my job for the better part of the next year… I am bored.

Completely.

Utterly.

Bored.

I do not regret the decision to have gone on maternity leave a month before the due date, and it certainly proved to be the right decision given my blood pressure is no longer on the increase and frankly, a case of false labor is enough to prompt anyone into a state of perpetual waiting.

But damn, I am bored.

I don’t sleep very well through the night anymore, and tend to get my best sleep early in the morning, 7am-noon.  This puts breakfast at around 1pm, and any activity I could’ve hoped to do that day doesn’t kick off until 3 or 4 in the afternoon when I can be bothered to actually pull my head from my ass and get it together long enough to accomplish something.

That in and of itself warrants comment.  What is it about being pregnant that turns the brain to useless mush?  I cannot focus, nor have I been able to in a very long time.  I seem incapable of doing even the most routine tasks, or being able to think long enough to decide on what I should probably be doing with my time that isn’t mindless surfing the internet.

The problem is, I don’t FEEL like doing anything.  Games, books, friends, walks, cleaning, packing… I know these are things I could be spending my time on but for one reason or another working up the motivation is a different story.

So I have been forcing myself to clean.

And not just any cleaning, DEEP cleaning.  Going through drawers, throwing away stuff we’ve hung onto for absolutely no reason,  SCRUBBING WALLS for feck’s sake!  We are probably still 2 weeks away from being able to move, 4 weeks away from D-Day.  But I’ve come to the conclusion that I have to be realistic: Maddie could arrive early.  If she did, I would want a super clean and organized flat to bring her back to, and I would want moving with a newborn in tow to be as easy as possible (read: not easy in the least).  Thankfully, we have a moses basket courtesy Barrie that will suit us and our small flat just fine if the Littlest of Doodles decides to make her grand entrance early.

So this has been my last two weeks: Wake up 12pm-1pm ish. Eat, zone out on teh interwebz for a good few hours, feeling guilty about wasting time but unable to overcome the odd, hypnotic powers of cat pictures with captions and great eBay deals, work up the motivation to DO something ie clean, annoy the hubby when he gets home up until he goes to sleep as I missed him all day and everyone needs a good annoying now and again, rinse repeat.

Although yesterday did provide some amusement as we went out to Worthing to have a look at a cot and chest of drawers being sold second hand that I found on friday-ad.co.uk   They were in immaculate condition, just as the ad promised, and GORGEOUS.  See stock image below:

The cot converts, as the child grows, into a single sized bed.  The chest of drawers has a changing table top to it which I am in love with.  Both pieces are simply beautiful.  Dearest hubby will be picking them up with a friend and a van next week.  Luckily, we have been given the ability to store large items we’ve bought over at Mark’s father’s house until we move.

I cannot wait to get everything set up in our new place, I am hoping Maddie gives us enough time ^_^

Four years ago today, to this very morning, I was stepping off a plane in a country I had never been to, about to meet a man I had never met before.    The process of moving through baggage and customs was long, and it was made even longer by the seconds I counted, the beats of my heart as it relentlessly pounded in my chest.  I was exhausted, having not slept a wink through the entire transatlantic flight, having not slept even the night before that.  Yet despite approaching 40 hours of no sleep I felt completely in the present moment, every nerve on end.

I was wearing what I’d hoped was cute. I had applied my make up in the wee hours of the morning, 30,000 feet in the air, whilst my fellow passengers continued to get the sleep I longed for.  With baggage in hand, I made my way through Heathrow airport, through the winding tunnels, following other passengers in hopes of being led out of the massive labyrinth.

In the greeting area, my eyes darted from face to face, looking for the man in the photographs.  I was still counting seconds.  There was, of course, no guarantee this person would even be here, and in which case I would’ve flown halfway around the world to a foreign country I knew nothing about and been stuck for a week.  The stress of this thought started creating a tunnel vision effect, and as I thought I might faint right there in the terminal, I saw him.

I saw Mark for the first time.

I remember everything about that day still four years later.  The way he looked, the way he smelled, the way it electrified my entire being to kiss him. As we departed the airport and headed for the subway, his hand found mine… and we still haven’t let go. Not for a minute.

We endured months apart at a time.  We lasted through awkward schedules and the occasional gaps of not even talking due to commitments.  Many nights we found ourselves in front of skype time and time again, sometimes talking and sometimes merely taking comfort in knowing the other was there.  Many nights Mark drifted off laying at the edge of his bed, sometimes mid-sentence.

We cherished the times when we could be together.  Our relationship made it through the strains and pressures of the long distance, of the uncertainty, and we married.  We found a way and together we moved mountains (and visa applications!) so we could finally know what it was like to live as a real couple.  To fall asleep in the dark next to one another and not 5000 miles apart.

I have always said and will always continue to say that I never expected to meet someone  in a video game (World of Warcraft), or on the other side of the world for that matter.  We never knew where it was going to go, and we both took a chance on a fateful conversation in a game, when I rather whimsically proposed that I could possibly come t0 visit him. Such few words, such a random and infinitely small chance that we’d have even played together, and out of that chance blossomed what we have today.

Four years on, that shy and uncertain girl who stepped off the plan at Heathrow is now his wife.  We’ve built a life of love for ourselves, and it has only continued to grow. And just when we thought we had gotten pretty good at falling in love with each other… Little Doodle came into being.  Now together we get to set out on the new task of finding out what it means to fall in love all over again, into a new kind of love with this tiny life we have created. And we get to experience all of these blessings thanks to a chance we took on someone halfway around the globe, that we met in a video game.

And we’ve never stopped holding hands.

I am off Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays of every week and I must say this particular midweek weekend has been about indulgence.  It started Tuesday whereby my normal whole grain cereal and fruit breakfast was inexplicably replaced by the desire to have cheesecake instead and it only went downhill from there.

I’ve been avoiding my end of year assignment.  Next up is chemistry and I really do not like chemistry (despite it, ironically, being the best grade I’ve received for any unit assignment).  I am, however, fortunate enough to be sister to 18 year old Chris-the-boy-wonder who can not only understand but also correct any mistakes I’ve made on my university level Chemistry and Physics.  He checks my work.

So instead of working on that on Tuesday I cleaned the flat and did laundry (and then suffered with subsequent back pain because I am really not used to these new pregnancy limitations) and  I sat down to watch one episode of Hoarders before starting my coursework and this turned into a day long Hoarders marathon of episodes I had downloaded.  I also napped, very important, as growing a new human being is, by no means, an easy feat.

(as a side note Mark refuses to watch Hoarders with me, and sticks my episodes into a folder called “Nicky’s Guilty Pleasures” on our drive).

I then somehow managed to convince Mark we needed (or, the baby needed, rather) McGangBangs for dinner.  If you don’t know what that is, it’s quite possibly the only way to make the McDonald’s menu any more unhealthy. Click here.

Wednesday I meant to work on the schoolwork after my 9am doctors appointment, but instead I napped.  We had a lovely lunch in the countryside with Jen and even grabbed coffee, which was supposed to fuel me through the next few hours I set aside for schoolwork… but instead, I napped.  And then hung out with Alicja in the evening.

Now we are at Thursday, I slept until 11am this morning and have, thus far, managed only breakfast.  I am writing this blog instead of working on Chemistry. Ughhhhhh. And I am tired already.  I’ve lost the mojo I had just a few weeks prior, and now this pregnancy thing is getting hard again. I feel like I am back to the first trimester where, if I wasn’t complaining about how crap I felt, I was sleeping… all. the. time.

I guess it’s time to go work on Chemistry.

I need a nap.

(ps.  it’s a caffeine molecule)