Our inability to organise a wank in a porno has meant the missus' 35th birthday has arrived and we have been too slack to get all the paperwork necessary together in time for our Australian emigration application. This is despite having shelled out nearly £2000 in fees, which of course is all non refundable.
What is wrong with me? Am I so laid back that I just don't give a fuck? Is it my genes to always just coast along and let life ping me around like a pinball? The woman from the emigration agency says we've lost five points and therefore are illegible for the under 35 visa so will now have to apply for a different one.
The application began with the missus going at it like a mad woman, obsessing over emigrating to Oz until it made her ill. After a stint on beta blockers she washed her hands of the whole thing and announced that I would be the one to do all the groundwork from now on. Me being the colander-brained half of the relationship, for every two steps forward I took one back, and now we're fucked. Her birthday is tomorrow, and she isn't speaking to me.
So, as well as the money, all the photocopying, hunting for ten-year-old certificates in attics, IELTS tests (two at £100 a pop), journeys to Tewkesbury / Bath / Brighton, stamping and certifying by our solicitor friend and evenings spent stressing over the computer and then rowing and not talking have amounted to fuck all.
Am I to blame? Is she to blame? Are we equally to blame? I don't know, because as usual I'm too fucking indecisive to do anything other than let feelings of guilt and disappointment wash over me and hope everything works out all right.
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