I don’t know that I need to say anything, I don’t know that anybody benefits. I guess I do, even though I may change my mind about everything have written just half an hour after I have published it.
This week has been intense. A week will soon have passed from the moment my husband went to see the house we want, and we have yet to have the contract and know for sure. There is really no reason why it shouldn’t go through, but my husband and I are both scarred from ever, ever just assuming everything will go smoothly.
He got ill on Monday night and only left to go back up north to work this morning. With him ill in bed and me popping calming pills and playing SWOTR to pass the time while I waited for a response for the house, it has been surreal.
On top of that, the build-up for the elections. The mixed feelings: caring a lot for the elections. Being angry at not having the right to vote for national elections just because I carry an Italian passport, despite paying very British taxes. Deciding not to vote for the local ones that I can vote for as I won’t be living in Cambridge much longer and anyway I am a second class citizen so who cares. Also, having a strong feeling I knew who would win, because I could feel it in the air, and they did, the Conservatives won. By a fat margin. At least in Cambridge they’ve come back to their senses.
Whenever you feel unsafe your draw your curtains and stay at home. This is what the English voters have done. And I was angry at feeling like I was one of the things they were hiding from. A foreigner. I am so fed up of being a foreigner all the time, but today I reasoned. I reasoned that although I feel no right to consider myself Italian, because I know nothing of what is going on and I can’t cook to save my life, I do have something which is intrinsically Italian about me: the sense of rebellion, of underlying anarchy, of beauty. So since I have to choose, I choose to embrace my Italianness. There are many things I like about living in Britain, mainly that I am allowed to work here without the horrors of Italian bureaucracy, and that I can spend the summer without melting, but if I dig deep in the literature, in the history, in the lore of being Italian, that is what I feel more mine. So, what the hell, if you can’t fight them (the labels, the definitions, the borders, urgh I hate them all so much) then join them. I am Italian and in fact Roman of Roman birth and heritage despite never living there so whatever, I am proud of it, once again, like a true blooming emigrant.
But also, a couple of days ago, my husband found out that a colleague of his from his ex-job here in Cambridge committed suicide. It shocked him. Hell, it shocked me, it took my breath away. She and her lover had been reprimanded for a lot of shouting and passions at the office. Apparently they were together but he had a wife and small child. They broke up. There will be no funeral here, because she will be shipped back to Australia, were her family is. Her family is in Australia. And they lost her, here. My husband said she looked like she might have been from some Middle Eastern heritage. But home, for her, is Australia.
My husband in his shock said “she didn’t seem the type”. Bless him. We need to raise awareness enough for everyone to understand there is no type. It happens, it can happen to anyone. Her boss apparently spent a lot of time trying to help her out, to talk with her. Very caring. Bless him.
Where would they ship me to? Where would they bury me? I want to be planted after I’m dead, where would they plant me?
I am sad for Tursan, she will be in my thoughts.
I couldn’t care less about the elections.
I am glad my husband got to work safe.
I miss a friend I lost but I am glad he’s alive.
I am glad for my friends that are alive.
I will now let all this go and resume some SWOTR (12x XP) and resume waiting for the house to become our house, stop being sad, hope a couple of friends say yes to a beer tonight.