Part eight; a letter

So yesterday (Thursday) the letter (yeap that one in the photograph) came that I was half dreading half excited about. My first acknowledged letter from the USA embassy in London. You might wonder why should I be dreading a letter that sets the next cog into working about moving and being with my boy. But to me this letter represents all the things I could do wrong. I could mess up all the paperwork, totally fail the medical or the interview. Or both. Or all.

I was half imagining a huge posh buddle but in fact it was a tiny white, USA marked envelope with one page basically telling me to go onto a website, print off all these numbered and lettered forms and book a medical. Apparently I can't book my interview till they have all that. Or something. You hear one story from the American side and another from the British side. It gets confusing.

To say i'm dreading the medical would be an understatement. I hate Drs, well not them personally but the idea of going to the doctors to get checked out fills me with dread. Of having all the tests and being prodded and poked like they are trying to find something wrong with you.

I'm leaving it a couple of days before I crawl onto the website and print everything off and sort it all out. I wish moving could be done without all this paperwork, go back to the time where people where free to move and seek new adventures and land without tests, medicals and interviews. Or having to prove every element of your life. I need to start getting positive which is hard when you have a negative mother.

Positive positive positive.