It's blossom 'n' birdsong time once more. The hunters
have packed up their rifles and spring is in the air. The lawn, such as it is,
has had its first cut. But word has come there none on our request for
citizenship.
My ever optimistic wife believes that it will come before
May because the current government recognises in our family three potential
voters for their party in the forthcoming elections. I don't believe it will
come. We might have had an avis favorable
from the prefecture, but I think the minister is sitting on our dossiers under
instructions from the Man at the Top.
'Mais, Monsieur
Président, there is a favourable opinion. They won't be a drain on the
state. They might even contribute to the nation's well-being.'
'Je m'en fous, Monsieur le Ministère. The
bastards are British. This Brexit mess is their fault.'
'To be fair, Monsieur Président, I think you'll find that
they were denied the right to vote in the referendum.'
'The bastards are British, I say. They'll receive no
presidential favours from me. Sit on their dossiers until I tell you otherwise.'
And so, I feel sure, the minister sits, while the
president fumes as his time in the sun runs out. Next incumbent could well be
Madame Le Pen. She may indeed admire Great Britain for showing the French
nation how to wriggle out of the European Union, but I doubt whether she or her
minister will be inclined to offer Brexpatriates any favours. Besides, would we
want to stay under a government of the far right?
More to the point perhaps, if the current minister sits
on those dossiers until his or her time is up, knowing the way that the
administrative machine works (or doesn't work) here, when it's time for the
next one to occupy the seat, in all probability we will be told to start all
over again. Having been through the whole protracted and expensive process
once, I for one am not inclined to go through it all again.
In any case, the Jews of Nazi Germany were presumably
legal citizens back in the 1930s. What a dreadful dilemma that must have been,
particularly at this time of year – when seasonal beauty seduces you into
believing that all is well with the world. Even if the writing on the wall is
there for all to see, it takes an act of single-minded courage to abandon all your
worldly goods and head for some foreign land and a very uncertain future. Far
easier to kid yourself that you can't make out the writing clearly enough and
opt to stay in the hope that things will sort themselves out in the long run.
Anyway, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it in the
time-honoured British tradition of bridge-crossing. Let's just cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we Nigel?
Presumably, that's what they did for the last 20 years or so of the British
Raj. Until the time came when action could not be put off any longer.
Aha! you say. You must have just finished re-watching The Jewel In The Crown. How right you
are. Granada's brilliant adaptation of Paul Scott's Raj Quartet. It has been
many years since either of us saw it for the first time and we'd forgotten much
of it – although the bloody climax on a train came back with surprising
clarity. I'd forgotten the superb production values, the stunning scenery in
the foothills of the Himalayas, the excellent performances of Peggy Ashcroft
and Tim Piggott-Smith (as the loathsome Ronald Merrick) in particular, the
awfulness of the expatriate community with its exclusive clubs and the kind of
blind belief in its own inviolable right to rule others. Even here, even now,
you hear echoes of this attitude in the type who, rather than learn Johnny
Foreigner's damnably tricky language, simply raises his voice to make himself
understood.
It's over now, let it go. I shall return it to the
safe-keeping of my father when I see him next month. We can claim our lives
back. My wife had also forgotten just what a hunk Charles Dance was in the
series that made him a minor star. So I'd better get down to some semi-serious
body-building in an attempt at least to outline some appealingly rippling
muscles and bulging biceps – not just to please my partner, but also in
preparation for the coming season of mowing, strimming, weeding, uprooting,
cutting back and generally trying to keep on top of riotous nature.
The trouble is, any kind of physical labour leaves me
aching all over and too stiff afterwards even to take off my socks unaided. You
are getting old Father Sampons, you shall wear the bottoms of your trousers
rolled. Spending too long at the computer, in fact. Get up offa that thang and get outside and get in training for longer
days and warmer times. Mens sana in
corpore, and all that. Even the most seasoned bridge-crosser needs exercise
and fresh air.
The birds are singing. There's no excuse.
