Because so little makes sense some times.
Because I am still struggling to extract the last of our money out of South Africa, and dealing with South African bureaucracy is actually causing me physical pain.
And in my head, I imagine this continuing for years to come. And I am starting to plan our next move, because, thank you Theresa, we need to leave the UK in just over two years from now. Yes, we will indeed be performing our very own Brexit. Because, fuck us, we are on the wrong visa. Just three little letters make such a big difference. ITC. Not general. ITC means we have to leave. Oh, we can come back a year later, but quite honestly, I don’t think I have more than one more international move left in me. Because moving countries is traumatic and stressful and expensive. The last one wiped out the bulk of our savings, and we are not getting younger and we need to think about our futures.
So I can just imagine that in a few years from now I am still going to struggle to get our money out of South Africa, but I am also going to have to try and get our money out of the UK. And who knows, maybe Ireland is not our forever home, and we end up doing this shit again, and eventually, I’m going to have to be a short-order cook at a chippy to be able to pay for a spot where the husband and I pitch our tent, because all our money is tied up in various countries, and even then it is not enough to live on, and we are 90 years old and the only thing I can do is deep fry shit.
I may or may not be having a small meltdown.
And I am still unable to post pictures to my blog. Which is why I am not blogging much at the moment.
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