Zero
At Last
Horsham Recon
The Ultimate
Waiting
One Step Closer
Made It!
On My Way
Lawyers, Gun, and Money
One Box at a Time
CV or Not CV
Preparations
Return
Zero
1 December 2002
Okay, now it’s cold.
I’ve quipped my way through the 40’s and high 30’s–to the annoyance of those around me–saying how much colder it gets in NY and observing that I don’t have to shovel rain. But for the past two mornings, the thermometer has stood at 0 degrees (that’s 32 degrees Fahrenheit, to us Yanks) and I have to admit, I am feeling the cold.
Granted, this really would be considered mild in upstate NY but the truth is, while I lived in the US, I didn’t have a very close relationship with the climate. On an average day, I would walk from my apartment to my car and from my car to my office (okay, and from my car to the bar, and after that the temperature became moot). In short, I didn’t spend a lot of time outside.
Here, in a blustery, zero-degree dawn, I take a 10-minute walk so I can stand at the bus stop, then ride an hour or so on a drafty bus before spending the entire day in my office where heat appears to be something of an afterthought. It’s not quite like Bob Cratchitt trying to warm himself over a single candle flame, but it’s close.
My landlord, too, has not been overly extravagant in the upkeep and modernization department. When we moved in my wife marveled at the two ancient storage heaters and cast a skeptical eye on the single-glazed, metal-framed windows. They did not disappoint.
The end result is, I’m always cold. Not freezing, like I would be in NY, just cold.
To combat this, we went out and bought another heater last weekend. It cost sixty quid and hasn’t made a bit of difference. It stands in our previously heaterless bedroom–it’s control panel glowing reassuringly while producing absolutely no discernable heat–a testimony to British engineering and our gullibility.
I have to say, it’s odd finding myself in a situation where I can’t simply turn the thermostat up. There is no thermostat and the heaters we have, for all there pathetic output, are already on ‘high.’
The traditional response to this situation, which Britain’s have been doing for centuries, is to dress warm and wait for spring. That doesn’t really appeal to me, however, so I think, despite the fact that we threw money at the problem and it didn’t go away, we’ll throw some more money at the problem and see if it will go away this time (good God, I’m turning into a Liberal!).
My vision is an apartment littered with little heaters, and an electric bill the size of a National Lottery jackpot. But at least we’ll be warm.
At Last
16 July 2002
Yeah, I got the job. But that’s not the only thing “At Last” is for.
First, however, the job. I went for the interview on Monday, 8 July and was called back for a second on Friday, 12 July. You can imagine how nervous that made me. I was told it was down to myself and one other guy. That didn’t make me feel any better, it just meant that if I blew that one, I was really, really pathetic.
The interview was more of a conversation, however, and I was relaxed and outgoing and confident, and genuinely liked the people, and I was called that afternoon and offered the job.
In typical Murphy’s Law (or Sod’s Law) fashion, my interview and the delivery of our couch coincided, so we had to have Jimmy Father-in-Law wait at the apartment for the delivery guys. They came about ten minutes before I got home, so when I arrived the couch was already in. They had even managed to fit it through the living room doorway—just. It’s a good thing I took the door off or it wouldn’t have fit.
I took FIL for a pint after that and then returned home to set the couch up. That was when they called about the job.
My wife was happy, naturally. We went out to dinner that evening to celebrate, and went furniture shopping over the weekend. We got a nice oak coffee table, an entertainment center and two bedside cabinets. They were all delivered on Monday so now our place looks like a real apartment. Finally.
So now I’m suddenly not unemployed any more, I’m just on vacation for a while until I get to start. That will allow me to finish up all those things I’ve been putting off for the past few weeks because I’ve been too busy looking for a job. I can relax and enjoy the summer weather and look forward to a more ‘normal’ existence.
Although it seems like I’ve been looking for a job forever, The Great Job Hunt didn’t really go on for an inordinate length of time. I only arrived here 1 March, and even though I did begin looking then, much of my time was taken up with getting settled, and getting married. After that, we left for America, and then, as soon as we returned, The Great Apartment Hunt began, and in May, we moved. The job hunt has only been going on full tilt since early June. So, if you look at it like that, it really didn’t take very long to find a job.
It was also interesting because we had always said, even when things were looking pretty dark, that we we’re worried about the job situation because everything about our life together had just fallen into place (like our apartment) and we were certain the job with be no different. We were right, too, as the job I finally got was one I kept passing over due to the insistence on commercial financial experience. Finally, I just sent my CV figuring it wouldn’t hurt. Meanwhile, I had been contemplating taking lower paying jobs, but none of them worked out. It all might have ended much differently, with me working at a job that barely covered our bills and our dreams of travel and early retirement radically changed. As it is, we should have plenty of money.
The other ‘At Last’ is the weather. Right up until last Friday it was miserable. On both of my trips to Brighton for the interviews, I had on a suit and had to wear my trench coat and bring an umbrella. I was not overly warm even dressed like that. The temps were in the 50’s and 60’s and it drizzled constantly. On Saturday, the sun finally came out. It had made an appearance (after a really crappy June) for about a week at the end of June, but even then it never really got warm. This time, it is hot!
When I went to Crawley yesterday to start my personnel paperwork, the walk to the station and the office left me feeling rather wilted. I could feel the sun hot on my back as I walked, and it smelled, for the first time since I’ve been here, like summer. There was the scent of drying grass, and moist undergrowth, and the heat radiating from the pavement. It was lovely.
Today, it was so hot when I went to sit out on the balcony I had to come inside. That’s a first for over here. After a bit, a cloud cover obscured the sun and I went back out. It wasn’t a grey, rain-bearing cloud cover, just a nice, summer haze that made the light soft and the air warm and moist. It was so peaceful and quiet and made me realize, once again, how lucky I am to be here.
Horsham Recon
09 May 2002
We, and the letting agents, are still shuffling paperwork back and forth and, since I’m the one with the most time on my hands, I’m the one who gets to hop on the train and make the short, scenic trip to the quaint and lovely town of Horsham.
This, if you haven’t yet guessed, is where our new home is going to be (if the good Lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise) and where I was yesterday afternoon, even though I had nothing constructive to do there.
I was on what I call a recon mission; just checking out the terrain, looking over the lay of the land. My mission began with a brisk walk from the station to the apartment block we will be living in; it took twenty minutes, which isn’t so bad as long as the sun is shining.
Next, I took a more leisurely stroll through the town.
The first thing I noticed, right across the street from the apartment building, was a perfectly adequate pub called The Kings Arms. Seeing as how it was open, I stepped inside.
It was charming, with beamed ceilings and the look of a building that was authentically old but had been necessarily modernized over the years. The result was a mixture of new and old woods in a variety of styles, but this merely added to the authenticity of its antiquity. There was a piano against the wall with a hand printed sign on it reading, “If you can play, don’t be shy. If you can’t, please don’t try!” Tables and chairs were scattered about the room, which was, at that time of the day, empty.
The only other person in the establishment was the barkeep; a young gentleman who had the TV on too loudly and was so engrossed in the video game he was playing and playing and playing that I thought I might die of thirst before I finally got a pint. He served me in silence and went straight back to his game, leaving me to finish my pint surrounded by the pings, pops and bongs of his flashy video game and the raucous music coming from the TV.
I didn’t stay for a second.
Horsham is a pretty town, featuring an extensive pedestrian area which encompasses a bandstand, several outdoor cafés, landscaped gardens, including a waterfall and the capper—a huge, fountain sculpture dedicated to Percy Shelly (who used to live here) entitled Shelly’s Fountain but which is universally called “Shelly’s Ball.” On many days there are open-air markets in the pedestrian area where you can buy fresh fruit, clothing, jewelry, music and even batteries. What you can’t find there, you can find in the Mall or countless stores and shoppes clustered in the town center. Swan Walk Mall runs the entire length of the pedestrian area, but you’d never know it. The massive building is cleverly camouflaged behind the stores and café’s lining West Street. There are two large entrances and, if you step inside, you suddenly find yourself transported from a quaint English town to a modern, bustling shopping mall. The mall is good sized, and any American would recognize many of the stores. Other stores, they would not, but the merchandise is all the same. The Mall itself is lovely, with café’s, skylights, decorative floor tiling and a big central fountain/sculpture of three swans landing in a pool of water.
Out the front entrance of the Mall is the street known as The Carfax. This is where the bandstand, war memorials and public pillories are. I’m not joking—there are two authentic pillars, or stocks, still in the town square. I don’t think they are put into regular use, however. Up the line is a large watering trough for your horse and scattered all about are numerous pubs.
Near The Carfax, is The King’s Head pub. Having so recently located The King’s Arms, I searched the cramped blocks of Horsham for The King’s Legs, The King’s Torso and The King’s Naughty Bits, but they were nowhere to be found. After experiencing The King’s Arms, I avoided His Head and went instead to the aptly named Stout House. This was a place more to my liking, with friendly service, local color and good beer. I’ll be coming back to that one, I can tell.
In addition to the bandstand in The Carfax, which is often put to good use, is the bandstand in the town park. Horsham’s park is huge and is currently being added to. An indoor complex housing, among other attractions, a swimming pool, is due to open this fall. There are tennis courts, a putting green, a wonderful playground that makes me wish I were ten again and lots and lots of room for pick-up games of football or cricket. Benches and landscaped gardens are all about the park and, near the playground, is a garden maze with a bronze sculpture of St. Leonard’s Dragon as the central focus. Near the bandstand is a teashop, which is open throughout the year. The teashop has an extensive menu, plenty of indoor seating and a large outdoor eating area so patrons can enjoy the bands, which often play in the bandstand.
Much of Horsham’s population lives in housing developments or apartment complexes too far from the town center to commute comfortably by foot. Horsham is a large town, and the quaint town center is only a small part of it. Still, it’s the part where I live, and if the far-flung reaches of Horsham are indistinguishable from a thousand other English towns, the Horsham I know has cobbled, narrow streets, ancient buildings, plenty of shops, landscaped parks and numerous pubs.
I think I’m going to like it here.
The Ultimate
6 May 2002
I’m still noticing differences in our cultures on a regular basis, I’m just not making as big a deal out of them lately. They are so ubiquitous that, to make note of them all would be tedious.
However, a few notables have cropped up recently:
They don’t use return address here in the UK. I used to think it was just a quirk of this family, but now that I’m getting cards and letters from other UK residents and businesses, I see that the return address is habitually omitted.
This has caused some difficulties. One letter I received had such poor penmanship (worse, even, than mine) that I could not read it, nor could I make out the signature. I had no idea who it was from until I managed to decipher a few key phrases which lead me to suspect a specific individual.
But aside from personal inconvenience, what does the Royal Mail do when they can’t deliver a message? I envision a huge bin of undeliverable mail with no return addresses and a growing group of people sitting around wondering why uncle Harry never thanked them for the birthday card with the £50 note in it.
One thing that the Brits do that we in the US do not do is use the plastic bars designed to separate your groceries from the groceries of the people in front of and behind you at the supermarket check-out. We have them in the US, we just, in general, don’t use them.
Here in the UK, they are always used–it’s like a religion. I hadn’t noticed this until we were in the US together and my wife continually placed the separator on the check-out counter while most everyone else simply left a little space between the piles of groceries.
It also seems that the Brits do more than drive on the left side of the road–they also zip up jackets from the left. I recently bought a nice waterproof jacket (you need one here, really) and noticed it was a bit awkward trying to zip it up.
I compared it to my American jacket and, sure enough, the zipper mechanism (I’m sure there’s a name for it–it’s the little metal do-dad with the tab on it that you pull to zip your jacket up) was on the left side, not the right. I checked other UK jackets and they also zipped on the left. Just how many things can be backwards in this county?
The ultimate, however, did not involve any specific item, but still highlighted the gulf between our cultures. Last night, the family watched a show which took place in the North Country. After enduring 10 minutes of me asking “What did he say? What did he say?” they turned on the Subtitles option.
I actually watched an entire TV show, supposedly in English, relying on the subtitles to let me know what was going on.
And they claim we speak the same language.
Waiting
12 April 2002
The wonderful, summer-like weather we had over the week of the wedding has cooled to a more seasonal, springtime temperature. It’s still nice, but not quite as warm. And I still get to enjoy a cigar in the sun most afternoons.
That, of course, is because I am still not working.
Despite spending every morning surfing the job web sites, sending e-mails and applications, and making or returning phone calls, no job has yet come my way.
I’ve had an interview or two. One was very promising, but the opportunity mysteriously disappeared. It seems the UK isn’t the land of IT opportunity I had heard it was. Still, I remain confident; something will come along eventually.
Once our finances are settled and my severance pay, etc. catches up with me, we should be able to get a place of our own (for those of you not following along, we’re still living with my in-laws). Once we’re permanently settled, I can, perhaps, pick up some local, part time work, just to have some money coming it. Or not. Nothing is set in stone, and nothing is certain. However, this I do know; anything is possible.
Until then, the search goes on and, as long as the nice weather holds I will enjoy my newly adopted country, and myself, as thoroughly as I am able.
One Step Closer
25 March 2002
Next week at this time, I’ll be married. That’s one more hurdle to get over. Sad to think of it like that, but the main reason we have to get married is so we can have the marriage certificate to show immigration. But we only found out we had to get married after we had already decided we wanted to get married, so I guess that’s all right.
Things are looking up all around; the weather has cleared nicely; it is now sunny and starting to get warm, and tomorrow I go on my first UK Job Interview. Fingers crossed.
Not surprisingly, I’m still tripping over the cultural divide. While watching TV the other night, I discovered that, in addition to the traditional way of ‘flipping someone off,’ the Brits have another method–they hold up both the index and middle finger of their right hand. This, they tell me, stems from the medieval wars with the French. Captured English archers had those two fingers cut off to prevent them from using their bows. So when an Englishman encountered a Frenchman, he would show those two fingers to basically say, “F— you! I’ve still got them!” [NOTE: Actually, that’s not true; no one really knows where it comes from.] Now, of course, you can just flip them up to anyone and they will know they have been told to Bugger Off. Americans, I guess, are more economical; they just use the one finger salute.
Speaking of television, the game shows here are pretty odd. Some try to be flashy, like American game shows, but come off looking sad. Few of them pay out what we might consider big money and, most mind-boggling of all, some of them don’t even have prizes! That’s right, contestants play for the simple joy of playing; they keep score and announce a winner at the end, but there is no prize or money given to the winner. You’d never get an American on a game show like that!
One of the neatest things they have here that I have never seen in America is the Electric Kettle. It sits on your counter, you put water in it, push the button or switch and, when it boils, it shuts itself off. No running to turn off the stove, no moving a boiling kettle around just to stop that infernal whistling. It’s neat and economical and just makes sense. My guess is we don’t drink enough tea in America to warrant importing them.
Now that we’re having a stretch of nice weather, we can open the windows and doors for some fresh spring breezes. (ASIDE: Before I move on to the good weather, I need to report that the rain we had last week was positively torrential. I have seen it rain that hard, but only in spurts. This came down like a cow pissing on a flat rock, and it lasted for hours. I was, as they say here, gob smacked.) I’ve also been able to sit out in the back garden (the back yard) when the sun has been out and found it quite comfortable. I did notice, however, that they had no screens for their windows and no screen doors. It was explained to me that, here, at least, they don’t have enough of a bug problem to need them. Apparently, they just leave their windows and doors open and nothing too noisome flies, crawls or slithers through them. Back home, the gnats, mosquitoes and horse flies would eat you alive and then carry off your refrigerator.
Cultures Clashing
18 March 2002
There’s not a lot to report from this side; I’m still searching for a job, the weather turned bad and I’m still finding more and more differences between our cultures.
The weather here was fine up until a few days ago, then it got windy and rainy. We had a few breaks of sun over the weekend but right now it’s coming down in buckets. Welcome to England.
I’m getting over the more obvious differences between our cultures, like driving on the wrong side of the road or calling French fries ‘Chips’ but ever day brings more differences to light.
Their bathtubs are narrower and deeper than they are in the US. In addition to that, they are also, inexplicably, set up higher. This makes it a lot more difficult to step in and out of them while showering. Speaking of, they don’t have showers like we do but instead have a device mounted on the shower wall, which heats water as it comes out. This saves them from using up all the hot water in the hot water tank, which they call something else that I can’t remember and which is only on for certain parts of the day to take advantage of the cheaper electric rates as , apparently, the cost of electricity here goes up and down at random over a 24 hour period.
Their beds are different as well. They either have a mattress on wooden slats or a link-spring , or they have some sort of box spring with drawers in the side which goes all the way down to floor level. You can’t get a normal US box spring and mattress type bed that you can hide stuff under. If you want to use the area beneath the bed for storage (and believe me, you need all the extra storage you can get here) you have to buy the link-spring type bed.
The idea of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich baffles them, yet they smear Marmite (a salty yeast concoction very similar to Vegemite) on their bread and put ketchup on their French toast. Ironically, they do not put ketchup on their chips; they put vinegar on them instead.
So that’s what I have learned this weekend. Other than that, there isn’t a lot going on. The wedding is in ten days; hopefully, it will stop raining by then.
Made It!
04 March 2002
The flight was okay–not great, a few delays but no major problems. I landed at Gatwick airport at 9 AM on Friday morning and by 4 o’clock that afternoon we had not only established my residency with the Registrar, but managed to book a date for the wedding as well. We’ll be married on 28 March, which leaves us plenty of time to visit the Home Office in Croydon to get my visa stamp.
It is so very odd to think I live here now. Prior to leaving, I was panicking a bit at the thought of leaving America for good, but now that I’m here I feel comfortable and at home. I know it’s inevitable that I’ll get homesick sooner or later but right now it’s all too exciting to think about that.
Despite having visited here a few times, I’m finding more and more differences between the US and the UK. It seems that there is actually very little ‘sameness’ between our cultures. They have a different way of doing practically everything and have a different word for practically everything (NOTE: don’t ask for a napkin at the dinner table). We’re already at the stage where, if something comes up, we just assume there is a difference instead of assuming it is the same: how we make a sandwich (butter vs. mayo), how we turn on the stove, how we make a bed (duvet vs blankets), what those things in the pantry are called (tins vs. cans), etc., etc.
Today is the first ‘normal’ day, so I’m getting ready to go out and look for a job. So far, everything has turned out to be easier than we had expected so, hopefully, this will go well, too.
Fingers crossed.
On My Way
25 February 2002
Almost everything has been mailed. My apartment is all but empty. I will be turning off the cable tomorrow and packing up my PC.
This is it; there’s no turning back.
These past days have been quite hectic. I had my final day at work last Friday, so I am now officially unemployed. Very soon I will be officially homeless.
My current furnishings consist of a camp chair, a camp table, an air mattress and my PC–the same furnishings I had when I first moved in here just over a year ago. It’s sort of bittersweet to know I will be leaving here soon; it’s been a very nice apartment.
Once all my running about was accomplished, I sat in the living room with the balcony door open, smoking a cigar and having a pint of Guinness. The February afternoon was grey but balmy and I enjoyed the mild breeze. I sat listening to the comforting hum of traffic and the mp3’s on my computer, pondering my future and the changes this year has brought.
I wonder, naturally, how it’s all going to turn out, when I’m going to be able to find a job and if I’ll like it as much as I have enjoyed my job here in America. I wonder where we are going to live and if it will be as bucolic and comforting as this place.
Whatever the future brings, it’s going to be an adventure I could never have dreamed of living just a few short months ago. And for better or worse, I’m jumping headlong into it.
See you on the other side.
Lawyers, Guns, and Money
12 February 2002
I am an American. Therefore, I own guns.
Not many, just a rifle and a pistol, but they suddenly popped to the top of my lengthy ‘To Do’ list.
If you are a Brit reading this, it may surprise you to hear that, in this country, any one-toothed, trailer-jockey can saunter into a Wal-Mart and walk out with a pump shotgun, a deer rifle, and enough ammo to hold off local law enforcement for a long weekend.
That may surprise you, but I doubt it. Our love affair with armaments is well documented on the news.
The surprise comes when I explain to my American friends that I have to get rid of my guns before I leave for Britain. “Why don’t you just bring them with you?” they ask. “Because guns are illegal in the United Kingdom,” I tell them. Then I watch them as they try to get their mind around the concept of a country without guns. It’s always amusing.
To be fair to us Americans, we all grew up in a vast land where owning guns is a God-given right. I don’t know very many people who don’t own at least a rifle. And many of my friends own pistols, despite the fact that they are a little more complex to purchase. Well, legally, anyway.
The idea that there is a place on this earth where the citizens are not allowed to own guns, and where the police don’t even carry guns is so horrifyingly foreign to us that it is nearly impossible to conceive. I might as well have said that the people in Britain are all required to hop on one foot, and are legally required to enter elevators (which they call lorries) backward. Something like that would be easier for the average American to understand and deal with.
But I didn’t have to concern myself with any of that. I simply needed to get rid of them. The rifle was easy, I just gave it away, but the pistol was another story. I am legally required to be in constant possession of the pistol. If I accidentally ‘lost’ it, or it turned up in someone else’s hands, the police (with guns) would get involved. It could get messy after that, what with having to hire lawyers and spending all my money on them and having a criminal record. All of this might reduce my chances of immigrating. So I had to do it the ‘legal’ way.
I won’t go into the complexities involved, except to say it rivals the immigration process for paperwork and trips to county offices. But in the end I was able to have the pistol removed from my permit and placed on someone else’s.
Figuring I wasn’t going to be in the market for another firearm any time soon, I surrendered my permit immediately after getting the pistol off of it. The clerk was amazed. “In thirteen years of working here,” she told me, “I have never seen anyone surrender their permit.” When I told her the reason, she went through the same mental contortions as my friends did, trying to understand a country without guns. That surprised, me; I thought someone in the gun business might have known about international gun laws.
I walked out feeling much lighter. Another big item had been crossed off my “To Do” list On the long drive home, I had a chance to reflect on my life with guns and my new life without guns. At one time, the idea might have upset me, but life in suburban America is more complex than it used to be and I haven’t shot my guns in years. The days of sitting on the back steps picking beer cans off the fence posts are long gone. I still miss those days, but the world moves on and you have to move with it.
One thing really surprised me, however; once I started thinking about it, I realized I knew a fair number of people who had been shot, some fatally, some not. That’s something I doubt the people in Britain can claim.
One Box at a Time
09 February 2002
My apartment is a shambles. Organized as I am, I cannot put packing off until the last minute (packing a suitcase, yes, but packing up my apartment, no). Consequently, some time ago, nearly everything in my apartment ended up in one of three continually shifting piles designated “Trash,” “Sell” or “Ship.” The Trash pile sometimes made it to the dumpster, the Sell pile occasionally dwindled a little, leaving a bit of hard currency in its wake, but the Ship pile just sat there.
Finally, I couldn’t stand looking at it any longer, so I began boxing it up. I know I’m not moving for a while, but it made me feel like I was getting something done.
It also forced me to play a games called, “Guess what I can live without for the next few months.”
I tried to be logical, boxing up books and photographs and other items I knew I could do without. That seemed to work, so I went on to articles of clothing I knew I wouldn’t be needing for a while: a spare coat, spring jacket, summer shirts and my bathrobe.
I bought the bathrobe when I first moved into this place and for as long as I have lived here I haven’t worn it; I guess I’m just not the ‘lounging around in my bathrobe’ kind of guy. So I boxed it up and put it in the Post.
Then, of course, I got the flu.
I just spent the better part of this past week ‘lounging around in a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt.’ It’s just not the same, especially when you’re sick. It did teach me a valuable lesson, however:
If you don’t have something you need, you’ll learn to do without.
So today, I boxed up all my glassware.
CV or Not CV
01 February 2002
I may not be living in England yet, but that hasn’t stopped me from looking for a job.
The Internet is a wonderful thing, offering no end of job-searching sites. A UK-based friend put on to a few really good ones and I’ve been occasionally exploring them despite the fact that it’s still a little early to be thinking about job hunting.
The good news is, there does seem to be ample employment for someone with my job skills. Some of those positions looked so good and fit my profile so nicely I couldn’t resist sending a résumé.
Or CV, as the Brits refer to it.
This was another case of “What language are we speaking again?” The job postings kept requesting CV’s so I assumed they meant résumé. Knowing I was dealing with the British, I didn’t want to go forward on an assumption, so I did some quick research (I e-mailed my fiancé) and, sure enough, was informed that “CV” means “résumé” in UKese.
Happy with that, I sent off a few job applications before it hit me that I was still operating under an assumption: that a US résumé looks the same as a UK résumé. I did some more quick research (downloaded a sample from the website) and, sure enough, what my prospective employers were expecting from me was not my definition of a résumé.
The sample I downloaded had a ‘profile’ and a rather verbose description of job tasks, along with accomplishments. I have been taught to keep my résumé very tight, and to one page only. Consequently, it consists of bulleted lists and is very sparse on details. Phrases such as “Supervised staff” were common; there is no mention of accomplishments.
To be fair, I’ve been in Civil Service my entire career. It may be that my résumé is as different from a “real world, US résumé” as it is from a UK CV. Civil Service is, after all, pretty much the same where ever you go, so there is no real need for lengthy explanations and, let’s face it, Civil Service is not really big on “accomplishments.”
Even so, I find I now have to revamp my entire résumé, and I am already chagrined that at least a few prospective employers are probably now sitting at their desks, shaking their heads and thinking, “This bloke wants to work for us? Why, he writes a CV like a bloody Yank!”
Preparations
05 January 2002
This is, without a doubt, the most drastic undertaking of my entire life. For all that, I think I have it fairly well under control.
There are so many variables and so many things to co-ordinate, not the least of which is disentangling myself from my civil service job where I have been working for the past quarter century. After that much time, your life becomes so pervaded by the ‘culture’ of civil service you begin to take it all for granted.
The money isn’t great, but it has always been comfortable, and lately it has been very good. The job, for the most part, is at my convenience, thanks to liberal holiday, personal and sick leave. I have, for my entire adult life, had excellent health benefits, a good dental plan, eye care and a host of other perks.
All of that is about to change in ways I cannot even imagine.
I have never been unemployed before, and the thought is frightening. Not only will I have to find a new job, but I’ll also have to do it in a strange culture.
There is also the unsettling thought that this is all irrevocable. Once I quit, once I move out of my apartment, once I get on that plane and head for the UK, there is no going back. Well, I could go back, I suppose, but I’d have no job, no place to live and no money.
Does all this give me second thoughts? No. Pause for thought, yes, but not second thoughts.
Despite the problems in selling my car, getting rid of all my stuff, trying to wade through the red tape of immigration and tax laws and the daunting thought of having little money in a culture where the cost of living is much higher than it is here, I have the deep conviction that I am doing the right thing.
In my mind, I have only two choices; continue to live in America and finish out my life working at a cushy and undemanding job or accept the hardships inherent in such a move and build a life with a woman who is deeply in love with me and who I love dearly. When looked at that way, the choice is obvious.
And so I spent the day sorting through my stuff and making multiple trips to the dumpster. I arranged to sell my furniture and worked out a plan to get rid of my car. I studied the tax laws and checked into my financial situation. All in all, things don’t look all that bad. Not yet, at least.
Right now, everything still seems surreal and England seems very far away. What I have to hang onto is the knowledge that, when I am there, I feel at home and happier than I can ever remember being. For now, that’s going to have to get me through.
