We are now residents of Islington.
Just off the Essex Road....the posh end.
After the limbo of living like hobos, we now finally have a place to fill with our character and love. We arrived into our new home on the 22nd January, followed swiftly by my parents laden with household goodies (and bedding, thank god!).
After taking donations from family of more household goodies, we were finally left alone in the space with minimal furniture, shockingly bright kitchen strip lighting and all of our bags piled into a corner. We sighed, we grinned and then we said 'So what do we do now?'
After the chaos of the months before we had finally achieved our aim. To move to London, start our jobs and find a place to live. Check, check, check.
What if he couldn't get a national insurance number, what if they refused him, why would they refuse him....he already had a job in the UK, he's not freeloading off the state...and so on, and so on.
After handing over his letter, I was told directly and sternly not to hang around for him outside but to take myself off for a long walk for at least an hour. There were at least half a dozen people waiting outside, clearing ignoring the order, some australian, some eastern european. Some quite sinister 'boyfriends'.
So i did as i was told with a heavy heart and a promise from him to call me with news. I took myself to the pub down the road, which incidentally was the only pub with a plug point for my charger and wifi but with no heating. So i sat for nearly an hour, freezing, wondering, worrying, checking my phone.
I had bought a cash book to record our life and times at our new address, tempting fate somewhat that the contract for the house would be signed later that afternoon and that his interview for UK Tax paying would be a success.
After an hour I got fed up and walked back towards the office. I paced, up and down, up and down. Trying to not to step on the cracks as if this would make a difference. Maybe if stepped on enough 3 drains in a row, that would mean everything would be ok? The superstitious old broad rears her ugly head once more....
He finally texts 'They've taken my ID Card...they say they have to check it offically'. I know how sensitive he is about being parted from his ID card, it's the only form of Identification he has and even i'm not allowed to handle it without forensic gloves.
Unfortunately this set the tone for process. After much more fiddling around, they sent him on his way, minus his ID and said they would be in touch.
We have since found that they have declined his application on the grounds his ID is not valid. It was reported lost some years ago. Well, it was lost some years ago, but found again by the italian police who promptly gave it back to him but forgot to file the paperwork as it turns out. Cue the following days telephone calls to the italian embassy and consulate. He was passed from one to another like a ping pong ball with nobody claiming to know where is ID is.
Later that afternoon we successfully signed the paperwork on our new place but with a huge grey cloud hanging over us. After maybe 4 days, the declined letter arrived and further darkened the mood. He has an interview to gain an italian passport in April. Which seems like an age away now.
We, together have so many achievements under our belt so far.....first move, first ikea trip, first argument, first solution but all under a shadow of the disappointing national insurance interview. At times like this you want to scream at whatever idiot italian policeman that didn't do the correct paperwork. He used the same bloody document to enter this country when he got off the bloody plane!!!
So we carry on regardless....buying a wardrobe, making plans,
deciding where to put furniture......