A Voice's Journey to be Heard

As previously pointed out in The Story Too Good Not To Share, whatever else I may be besides, it's the description, title, designation of - and ability as a - singer that is the essense - and starting point - of who and what I am. While it may not be the only thing that defines me, it is definitely one of the most obvious and major things that defines me. That's not pride in myself, that's gratefulness to a God I believe in for entrusting me with a gift. From the time I was aware that I could open my mouth and make beautiful sounds come out, all I ever wanted to do was sing. From the time I discovered what it was like to perform for an audience and touch so many without touching them, there was only one "career" I ever seriously considered; there was only one thing I wanted to do.

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No one ever makes it on talent - even great talent - alone. It would be nice if it were so, but it just doesn't work that way. Without the right "connections" - or a whole lot of money starting out - you don't get very far. It's also imperative that you have someone - someone who knows what they are doing - to promote you. So, while I have sang my entire life, starting at age four (and, I am not referring to singing in the shower, I am speaking publically and professionally), because I neither had the right connections nor the abundance of surplus cash, I wasn't what you - or I - would call a success.

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Up until moving to England, I sang here and there, now and then, when the oportunities arose (and they were all too few and far between for my liking), mostly in churches, occasionally for personal functions (weddings, anniversaries, various parties etc.) and rarely for country clubs and concert halls. It was frustrating at best. It was torture at worst. I was always well received by the audience - and that was (as it always is) rewarding - but with nothing ever really coming from it in the long-run, I was extremely disatisfied. Even after moving to the UK, I encountered an attitude from many people that just couldn't sympathise and were unable to understand where I was coming from in regards to the importance of singing in my life and the drive - the intense passion - to "do what I do". A lot of people just looked at it as 'my hobby' or just as a side interest and not as something serious. That's always the way it is before someone hears me, anyway. Afterwards, it's like, 'My God, I didn't know you could really SING! You're really quite talented. Ever think of doing this for a living?' Well...HELLO! I really want to hit these people with a large stick, but I think even that would not work to beat the ingrained stupidity out of them. And, poor ignorant souls, I suppose they mean well. Some of them do, anyway.

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My singing debut in the UK came about because there happened to be a nearly in tune piano at the pub where Jamie and I had our wedding reception on the 18th of September, 2004. Someone asked the landlord if it would be alright for me to play it, and they said yes. So, I sat down and played and sang a couple of songs I had written. It had been a long time since I had played, so it really wasn't the best of performances to say the least (the voice is never rusty, but if I don't keep up with playing it can accumulate that "rust" quite quickly), but it was enough to get the attention of Jamie's aunt who asked if I would be willing to come and sing at her Church for an event they were having. I said I would be happy to. So it was that, in June of the following year, the event took place with me as the finale. It went splendidly well. I was quite pleased, and so were the ladies of the Sileby First Methodist Church who put on the event; it was well received by everyone who attended and I even got a small write up in the local paper about it.

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Yay for getting one's name in print, even if they made a typographical error and didn't capitalize the first letter of it; it's all good publicity of some sort.

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The surprise - for me - of the whole thing, was getting an upright piano as payment. The Church was selling off their extra uprights and Aunt Sheila purchased one for me. I was, of course, extremely grateful and thanked her profusely. However, other than the promise to have me back, nothing else, no other gigs, came from it. And, at the time, Jamie and I had no where to put the piano, and so I didn't even have that.

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At this time I was working at a health food shop in the centre of town (Loughborough). Retail. It sucks (and, not in a good way), unless you are one of the few people who actually enjoy it and have a real gift for it. It definitely wasn't my first choice for a job; it was pretty much a case of 'beggers can't be choosers'. Circumstances dictated the need for me to work, and I took what I could get; it seemed like other places didn't want to take a chance on 'The American Woman' and since the only training I had was musical, and the only real work experience I had up to that point had been in retail, I had little choice in the matter. I settled into working there, and it wasn't like I hated it...at first. I learned things about health and nutrition, vitamins and herbs. That part was all good. While I didn't particularly like the owner, I did like the area manager and became friends with the shop manager (or manageress, as she was called) and one of the other employees. Yeah, I had to work Saturdays when Jamie was off. Yeah, the pay wasn't great. But, it wasn't all bad. However, things didn't stay that way.

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In July, shortly after my birthday, Jamie and I got a big surprise; something happened that wasn't at all planned (mostly due to finances and our housing situation): I found out I was pregnant!!! While it was a bit of a worry (on the finance and housing side of things), it was also a whole lot of joy. Jamie has always wanted to have children of his own and it was one of the things that The Cow had denied him (one of many things); she had told him before they got married that she wanted to have a family, but after they had been married for a bit she told him that if he ever got her pregnant that she would abort. Yeah, she should be tortured to a slow death... but, I digress. While Jamie has embraced my girls as his own, there is still that desire to have his own - and my desire to have a child with him - and, with my children living so far away, it's not like he really gets the oportunity to be a dad with them as he would so very much like to. So, we were scared but thrilled. And yet, from the beginning, my fears ran very deep because I knew there was something wrong.

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On Sunday evening, the 21st of August, 2005 I had a miscarriage. I was 12 weeks along. It is still very traumatic to think, talk, and write about and I'm sure I'll go into more detail about it specifically in forthcoming installments of The Story Too Good Not To Share. For the purpose of this particular tale, however, I shall only be relating how it effected my work situation: I was, obviously, emotionally distraught and devastated - my hormones were all over the place - and physically very weak and drained. I had lost a lot of blood through the whole horrendous ordeal and had become anaemic; it took me quite a while to get any kind of strength back. Along with my mental and emotional stability (or the lack thereof), I was in absolutely no condition to deal with standing on my feet all day long, shifting a large amount of stock around, making nice with the endless stream customers while my heart was aching, or any of the general stress of retail. Add to this the fact that the manageress whom I had gotten along so well with was leaving to go to a better paid, less stressful job (well, who could blame her), and that was leaving up in the air what was going to happen at the shop; it was all very distressing. But, it was about to get worse.

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So, Angie left for bigger and better things and I was left to deal with all the ordering and the paperwork and the money, along with everything else I had previously been doing. I, of course, didn't get paid any more for doing these things; I was expected to do them without complaint until they hired someone else to manage the shop (they said they hadn't considered me because of the miscariage and didn't think I could handle it because of that). And so, enter *Jackie. They had to have been seriously stu-u'm, I mean, desperate to re-hire a bitch they had sacked ten years prior for being on drugs (something I suspect she's still on, if her chronic paranoia and lack of appetite are any indication - which, of course, they are). If I had been in my right mind and had all my strength back I wouldn't have been able to work with her. As it was, it was torturous. I dreaded waking up each day to face her and her attitude. Honestly, if she isn't still taking drugs, her brain and her body have been so ravaged by them that she is still - and seems always will be - "under their influence". She didn't trust me (because she was paranoid and thought I was talking about her behind her back), but she wanted me to do all her managerial duties (because she is dyslexic and couldn't handle dealing with the money and paperwork - I'm dyslexic, too - so, it wasn't an excuse), while she threw her weight (not that there was much of that, seeing as to what the drugs had done to her - the woman is skin and bones) around, loudly declaring, 'I'M THE MANAGER HERE!' Can we say Napoleon? Pathetic, really. I couldn't stand it. I started looking for somewhere else to work.

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I had hoped that having some experience working in the UK behind me now that I would have a better chance getting something else. Alas, I was hitting a brick wall. But, the toll it was taking on me, having to go to work THERE, was wearing on me and Jamie could no longer bear to see me cry all the time. He told me I could quit.

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It was taking a big chance. Since neither of us are entitled to benefits because of me being American and not yet having Indefinite Leave to Remain, we really don't have the luxury of me not working and bringing in an income. But, I was nearing a very dangerous point, and Jamie would have rather lived on beans on toast and forgone the luxuries of having a television or internet than to have seen me slip right over the edge (which is exactly where I was headed). And so, with much relief, I handed in my resignation.

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However, I didn't hole up at home and rest like I would have really preferred to. Instead, I hit the pavement looking and interviewing for jobs. It was encouraging to be getting interviews; it was, at least, a start. I was applying for desk jobs: admin assistant, clerical, receptionist type stuff. The pay is better than retail in such jobs and...you get to sit down! I daily scoured the paper and the internet, and applied for positions left and right and centre. I liked it when I found places that accepted an application and CV (resume') via e-mail. One such receptionist job I applied for, when I tried to send my CV and cover letter, it kept bouncing back with an undeliverable message. So, I worked up my courage and rang the place. The lady, Liz, who answered said that they had received loads of e-mails about the job, this was the first she heard of any not coming through. She also told me they had already shortlisted the group of interviewees from that bunch of CVs that had come through and that they were holding the interviews the following day so there was no way I could get my CV there by post in time. This was very much resembling a dead end...so, I thought. However, she asked me if I had another e-mail account I could try sending my CV from. I said, yes, I would try sending it from my husband's e-mail account and see if there was any difference. There was. In about 15 minutes she rang me back to invite me to an interview.

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By now I can hear you screaming, 'What the hell does this have to do with singing?!' What, indeed. Keep your shirt on and hold your horses, we're getting there. I promise!

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I dressed smartly and, after finally locating the building the office was located in (it wasn't exactly the world's easiest place to find), I arrived at the interview to find an international software development company in need of a relatively computer/internet/e-mail savvy person who is well presented with a good telephone manner to be one of two front desk receptionists (they already had the other one) to handle some basic office admin along with greeting customers and logging the support calls that come in. It actually seemed like something that not only I might be capable of doing, but interesting and worthwhile, as well. And so, I didn't have much hope of getting it. I felt that the interview could have gone a lot better. I left thinking, "What a shame; that would be a really decent job to have," and I told Jamie I was disappointed because I didn't think I had a chance of getting it. Sure enough, the next day Liz notified me via e-mail that I hadn't gotten the job. I was getting discouraged, but I kept looking.

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In my attempt to find something, I had signed up with an agency. I was very clear about what I did and did not want to do. So, when they called me up with a temporary retail-on-my-feet-all-day-running-up-and-down-the-stairs job, I was not exactly amused. They said they were desperate and could really use my help, that it was only for three days, and they knew I needed the money. I reluctantly said I would do it. Minutes, literally minutes, after receiving that call, the phone rang again. "Hello..." I croaked out; I had a bad cold at the time. The voice - that I recognised right away as belonging to Liz - on the other end of the line said, 'Oh, Autumn, do have a cold?' I was surprised to hear the voice, but knew there could only be one reason why Liz would be calling me, so I remained calm when I replied, "Yes, it seems I have a bit of one." She then went on to tell me that they had narrowed down the candidates between me and this other lady to whom they had offered the job first. She turned it down (if I knew who this woman was and could find her I would go thank her) and they wanted to know if I was still interested. Well, d'uh! No, I didn't say that, of course. I told her that, yes, I was still very interested and would like to take the job.

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Moving right along (after all, this is about my singing, not about my day job...I don't want to digress overmuch, but just give you some background) I had been working at my new job for about three weeks when an e-mail came through to everyone from Ivor Pearce (one of the software developers). When I opened the e-mail, I was surprised to discover that it had nothing to do with computers but was all about the upcoming gigs of two different bands! I continued reading until I gathered that Ivor was somehow involved with these bands. At the end of the e-mail was an announcement about the lead singer of one of the bands, The Comfy Chairs, leaving at the end of the year, and if anyone was interested in taking part in an open audition, to please let him know. You, Dear Reader, may be shocked to find out that I did not e-mail him back right away; I sat there and contemplated it. While I was considering replying to Ivor's e-mail, Liz sent one to me, regarding the one Ivor sent, simply saying, 'Over to you, Autumn.' She had, of course, read my singing history in my CV. Thus, I composed an e-mail to Ivor asking him what kind of music the band did and informing him of my "interest". Well, it was a forgone conclusion, wasn't it?

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Ivor, preferring to speak in person rather than e-mail back and forth, came from his office out to reception to speak with me. I hadn't been working there very long, so I was still putting names together with faces (due to it being quite a large office), so now I knew that Ivor was the short - yet good looking, welshman. And, now I knew he played bass, as well. He did a really poor job of describing the band - which he admits - and then told me that the best way to see what the band was all about was to come to one of the gigs. And so, Jamie and I did just that.

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I was not in the least prepared to be as impressed as I was by the superb level of musicianship in this band. These were musicians who, while they still had day jobs, were proffessional, well-skilled musicians. Their sound was tight: an eclectic mixture of blues, soul, swing and funk, executed with expertise and style. I had been expecting "local band" and what I got was a polished performance from experienced music-makers. I immediately went from mild interest to deep desire. I wanted this. I would have this.

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I rehearsed. I prepared. I bought fishnets (never underestimate the power of fishnets); it was my voice that I wanted them to be wowed by, but I still wanted to dress to impress.

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The auditions took place in a hall the band had rented from the Methodist Church in East Leake, Nottinghamshire. Since Ivor was giving us a lift home, I was the last to audition just as I wanted to be; save the best for last. There was a lobby area where one could wait while the others were auditioning. The band was behind closed doors which prohibited me from seeing how the others performed, but not from hearing them. Jamie watched my smile get bigger as the night progressed. Stiff competition I was not going to get - not that I would have minded. But, there was absolutely no contest.

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By the time I came to the mic, the band was exhausted; they'd had - and heard - enough; as the night had progressed, and my smile had gotten bigger, their smiles had been getting less and less and they were losing hope...until I opened my mouth to sing.

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Where the other female auditionees struggled with the keys the songs were in (due to the old lead singer being male), my strong contralto stood out in contrast, and after I had sung the five required auditon numbers Pete (band leader, keyboardist and backdround vocalist) wanted to keep going. 'OK, Autumn. What's next?' "Pete", I said, "we've done five numbers." 'Have we?' So, we did one more and...I knew.

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Afterwards the band, consisting of the drummer: Simon Perkins, the guitarist: Jamie Colville, the bass player: Ivor Pearce, the saxophonist: Gemma Collinson (Pete's Daughter), and the leader and keyboardist: Pete Collinson, went to a local pub to deliberate. Jamie (my Jamie) and I were invited along. There was some chat and some questions asked of me; my opinion of the others auditionees was asked for, and I was honest. I said, "In all fairness, I couldn't see any of the rest of them. So, I can't give you an opinion on how they performed; I can only tell you how I thought they sounded." And, so I told them, as politely as I could, but I didn't sugarcoat anything. I was told that, really, I was the only one that actually did perform as opposed to just standing up at the microphone like a lump with vocal chords. I told them that they could work with the woman who had auditioned before me, but that she would take a lot of work and training - all true, and they agreed.

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After we had discussed my musical background and expereince, along with the finer points of the audition (mine and the others) they asked me and Jamie to leave the table while they made some decisions. I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little nervous. I just held on to Jamie...and prayed.

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In just a few minutes Pete came up to me with a big grin and said he was pleased to offer me the position, to which I said I was pleased - and honoured and extremely grateful - to take it. Apparently I had blown them away.

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And so, that's how a dissatisfied American singer came to find satisfaction in finally being appreciated for her voice, her talent, in England. It may not be huge worldwide fame or the recording career I've dreamed of, but it is getting ongoing acknowledgment, recognition, audience/fan appreciation, and pay for "doing what I do". I get to work with a great bunch of dedicated pros who understand and share my passion. I'm lovin' it! For one, it's validation (about time). Two, it's always good getting to do what you love to do and are good at doing. And so, I'm living a dream (singing) within a dream (Jamie), again proving that they really can come true.

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Since the creation of the band, The Comfy Chairs have always been a popular and well-loved band in the Midlands, and now we continue to grow in popularity, gaining new fans as we go. We've recently dropped the "comfy" and opted for going with The Chairs as our name. For more information, or for booking (in the UK), do not hesitate to contact me.

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*name changed

The Story Too Good Not to Share (Part 2)

It was eleven days of bliss; from the 15th to the 26th of December 2003, Jamie and I had no ocean, no miles, and very little clothing at any given time, between us. The day he had to fly back to England was horrendous for us both. We were both inconsolable, and I felt as if my oxygen machine had been cruelly unplugged. Oh, the abyss was gone, I no longer lived in that place, Jamie had banished it, but once we had been face to face, hand in hand, and one flesh, it was torture to be separated by such time and distance again.
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It was too much for either one of us to bear. So it was that, nearly as soon as Jamie had returned to his Island, he bought tickets to come and see me again in February, for Valentine’s Day. We started counting the days. They…passed…ex-cru-ci-a-ting-ly ssslllooooooooowwly. We kept sane by spending as much time online together as we could, but it was painful going back to typing at each other and only being able to see each other on a tiny little webcam screen after being able to touch, taste, smell and talk to each other in person – together, as we were – and are - meant to be. We made the best of it, however, and made it through until February. Valentine’s 2004 was the dreamiest, most romantic and sexy Valentine’s ever…up until that time, anyway (we have had a couple since then, ya know). But, as the time between the visits went by painfully slowly, so the 10 days we had together sped by agonizingly quickly. In a blink, the time was gone. Alas, such is the way with Time…and we were back to counting days once more.
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Some may wonder what I did to fill the time. While Jamie was at work and couldn’t be online, I slept as much as possible. Healthy? Maybe not completely. Sanity saving? Most definitely. Other than that, there were books to read, poems to write, music to listen to when I couldn’t sleep. And there was exercise when I needed to work out aggression. There was babysitting for my sister. There were movies to watch. And, of course, there was the first hurdle to overcome in me getting myself to England: securing a passport!
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Something that should have been easy-peasy (and is for 99.999% of people), proved characteristically outrageously difficult for me. You wouldn’t believe the hoops I had to jump through to get something that any other red-blooded American would have had in a matter of days. Instead, it took me two months to get mine - and I had to fight, tooth and nail, for it. I was determined that no one and nothing would keep me from The Reason I Breathe. Dana’s ears are still ringing from me screaming in glee when it finally arrived in the post. I'm not going to go into why it was such a complicated matter for me to get a passport - it just was! However, as difficult as that was, it was a walk in the park in comparison to the immigration difficulties to come (we haven’t even gotten to the stuff about the visas yet)! But, before that happened, Jamie had one more visit to the States in April.
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It was just a short visit – well, shorter than the others were anyway – this time only for the weekend (Easter weekend). We didn’t have much time, but we took comfort in the fact that in just a little over a week after Jamie going back, I would be going to him! Dana – that wonderful best friend of mine - had given me half the money from his tax return so I could buy the tickets.
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Jamie and I, neither one, had any clue about the strict rules concerning entry clearance in regards to international engagements and marriage. Or, I should say, what the strict rules are NOW, post 9/11. I had looked on the British Immigration website, and had read where a tourist could come into the country, without need to purchase a visa, for up to six months. So, of course, wanting to spend the maximum time with Jamie, I made my return ticket for six months to the day of my arriving in England. We were hoping, however, that we could, while I was in the country, find out what I needed to do to be able to stay, since we wanted to be married as soon as possible. We were pretty much under the assumption that it was still like it was in the old days (in other words, pre 9/11) when you could do whatever you needed to do within the country and that marriage would extend citizenship to the married partner. Oh, how terribly wrong we were!

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On Wednesday, April 28th, 2004, Dana drove me to the airport and I was immediately met with the frustration of the modern day airport. The first thing I faced, as I joined the queue to check in, were notices that my flight had been overbooked and they were asking some people to take a later flight. My response to this was a polite, 'Hell no!' Next came the securing of my boarding pass and the production of checking in my luggage. After that was done, Dana and I had a little bit of time to talk and walk around before I needed to go through to the gate.

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Flying anywhere now can be a nerve wracking experience, let alone flying internationally. You are thoroughly searched and scanned, poked and prodded, checked and verified - usually more than once - before you board the plane to depart for your destination. Pre 9/11, before the airline and airport world changed, one could have their friends meet them at the gate when they arrived, and you could wait at the gate with someone who was departing. I remember the kindness afforded me by an employee of the airline that Jamie travelled on when he was going back to England after coming to see me that first time in December '03: when Jamie went to check in, he (the employee - I wish I had taken note of his name), sensed the situation and gave me a pass so that I would be allowed to go with Jamie, and wait with him at the gate, until the plane began boarding. I'm relatively sure that there was an angel wearing the uniform of a Virgin Atlantic employee visiting earth that day. There, you get that story for free (I wasn't even planning to tell that one).

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After Dana and I had said, hugged, and kissed our goodbyes, it was time for me to remove my shoes and coat (at least they didn’t make me strip down to my knickers like I’ve seen them do to some people; I’m not kidding here!) and get me, my shadow, and my carry-on luggage scanned, before going on to the gate to wait for boarding, there to face the scare that the flight might be cancelled due to the weather!

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Finally, after the threat of lightning had passed, the boarding of the plane commenced. This was it! At last, I was on my way to England and My Beautiful Man! In just eight more hours I would be in his arms...or so I thought.

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I passed the time by reading, watching movies, writing poetry, and checking the in-flight map to see how far we had flown and how much farther we had to go before we arrived at the London Gatwick Airport. It would have been good if I could have gotten some sleep - especially considering what I was going to face once I got there - but I'm unable to sleep sitting up. As it was, I ended up going through one of the worst experiences of my life on no sleep!

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Our final approach into Gatwick saw me looking out the window onto a colour of green I had ever only imagined, and struck upon me the realisation that the grass really is greener on the other side (it was like in the Wizard of Oz, when everything goes from being in black and white to being in colour and Dorothy says the famous line "We're not in Kansas anymore"; ummm, indeed...Florida, neither)! I had no clue what horrors awaited me, so I, wanting to look as fresh as I could for Jamie, brushed my hair and touched up the makeup that was soon to be cried off.

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Anxious to get to my man as quickly as possible, I grabbed up my carry-on luggage and made a mad dash for the door of the plane as soon as they turned off the seatbelt sign. I was so excited! I joined the herd and made my way through the hallway and lobby area which eventually leads to where the Immigration Officers stand at their little podiums. I joined the appropriate queue (for non-British passport holders) and waited my turn to be called up by one of the IOs.

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Now, there is a great amount of what happened next that I have blocked out because it was that distressing; there is quite a lot of detail I have mercifully forgotten. I'm explaining this only so you won't wonder why I'm being a tad vague on this part. When I use the term "interrogation" to describe the two and a half hours of the preview to hell I was subjected to, I don't use the term lightly or jokingly. I mean it; that's exactly what it was. To say that it was mere 'questioning' would be to make light of what it was; it would make it seem acceptable and tolerable, and I want to make it absolutely, entirely and utterly clear that what I was put through for two and a half hours was not in the least bit either of those two adjectives! For me, it was, undeniably, torture. In the end it all became sort of a painful blur; I don't remember the order the questions came in, or how many times the same ones were hurled at me in an effort to trip me up. I do remember the cold dark room I was taken to, and I do remember how personal the questions became, and I do remember the sick, horrible feeling in my stomach and the blinding headache from all the tears, and I do remember the sound of the IO's voice, along with the way she looked (ummm hmmm, a female), I remember her painstakingly going through every single item in my luggage, looking through every page of every book I had brought with me, and meticulously reading over the one snail-mail letter Jamie had sent to me along with a drawing of his he had given me, and I do remember being told they were most likely going to send me back. I will simply NEVER FORGET the SHOCK and the TERROR I had to endure for two and a half hours that, on my lack of sleep, felt more like two and a half days! I shall also always remember how great the grace of God and the amazing, overwhelming relief that flooded me when I was told they were going to let me in, "We've decided to let you in for six months. Just don't work, " she said to me. I had no intention of working! "And," she added, "you've been flagged, so when you come back you must have secured an Entry Clearance Visa, or you will not be allowed in." I said that I understood, thanked her profusely, grabbed up my ransacked luggage, and ran for the door where she said Jamie was waiting for me!

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People on both sides of the big puddle may be thinking, "What's the big deal? I don't get it. Aren't the US and the UK allies? You were only coming in to see your fiancé, you weren't trying to take over the country!" And, while all these things are true, the rules are very strict on entering (and staying in) either country for that matter; there is a massive amount of redtape - and money - involved. And, to this day, after all the things we've learned, Jamie and I still don't "get it", and still think it's unfair - because, it is! Governments should not hold your life in their hands in regards to being with The Reason You Breathe! But, I don't wish to clutter up this tale with a political argument...so, I'll just move on, I'll keep to the facts of the story, and let you decide where you stand on immigration issues.

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My first few days in England were...surreal. It took me a while to recover from my ordeal and gain my bearings but, surprisingly enough - maybe just because of the excitement - and relief - at being with Jamie, I didn't have any major problem with jetlag (even though there is a five hour time difference - England being five hours ahead - between the east coast states of the US and the UK). Seeing the sights could wait for more urgent matters, Jamie's and my passion and libido being so well matched, we had other pressing things (as in, each other) to do!

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Jamie and I revel and take great delight in the physical aspect of our relationship as a passionate and intensely pleasurable expression of our love: we both love sex, specifically with each other. In his marriage-that-never-should've-been, we've already determined how selfish The Cow was and, in this regard, she was no different, first of all being one of those typical females that I don't understand who can take sex or leave it (and most of the time leave it) - these women are just weird and wrong - and, the only time she wanted him was when she was drunk. In my marriage-that-never-should've-been it was like pulling teeth to get any - and, when I did, because he didn't want to be with me, it wasn't that great. Jamie and I are the fulfilment of each other's fantasies; we were designed to make love to each other...and, so we do...LOTS (as it should be)! As I am very outspoken about my belief about sex in marriage and the stupidity of women (wives) that shoot themselves in the foot by denying their husbands sex and then wonder why so many of them end up cheating, I am a thorn in the side of many a typical female, and Jamie is the envy of many a married a man. While loads of his male acquaintances told him, "When you get married, it will stop," just because that's the way it worked for them, Jamie just smiled knowingly and said, 'No it won't.' They didn't believe him, of course, but he knew me and, therefore, knew I'd never stop. He now has sweet bragging rights.

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Sex is good. It is a gift. Sex should never be used as a weapon or for manipulation. It should be enjoyed - especially in marriage! As I have stated, I feel very strongly on this issue. However, I'm getting on another tangent here...and so, I will leave the soap box for the moment, and get back to the story!

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The sight seeing came in time, and there are no doubt beautiful sights in England - some of which, as they enter this tale, I am sure to mention, but as I am writing The Story of Autumn and Jamie here, and not a travel journal, individual places and sights seen will not factor predominantly in this account except where they pertain to certain events having to centre around us.

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I arrived in the UK on a Thursday, and Jamie had taken that day and the following Friday off to make sure I got settled in. At that time, he was renting a room in shared house in Loughborough. I had never stayed in a "shared house" before (they are quite common here, but mostly among single people and the students that overrun university towns like Loughborough); it took some getting used to. This was one of the nicer accommodations in the area, however, for this sort of thing, and - for the most part - the other residents were nice. I soon learned my way around the area and - since Jamie worked close by - enjoyed making lunch for him during the week and walking to meet him for his break at work. During the day, while he was at work, I went online, read, exercised, and wrote the odd piece of poetry (not that the poetry was that weird, mind you...but, you know what I mean). At night and on the weekends, Jamie and I made our room a love nest and spent the hours cuddling while watching telly, or taking photographs, or reading together, amongst the afore mentioned activities. Indeed, Jamie and I stayed there quite comfortably until the landlady there - a woman who could make The Wicked Witch of the West look like Mother Theresa - got her knickers in a twist about me staying there with Jamie and not paying any extra rent. Her husband - a lovely little man, but nearly henpecked to death - was forced to give us the news that we would have to look for alternative living arrangements unless we were willing to rent another room for me! Hello? Why would I want another room even if we could have afforded it? The Bitch wouldn't even talk to me, or acknowledge my existence, and when she did talk to Jamie it was always with an uncalled for rude and angry tone of voice.

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Nothing is ever easy. We didn't know what to do. We were about to be without a place to live. Jamie, as he usually does when faced with such circumstances, panicked. Honestly, though, we didn't have a whole load of options; Jamie's mum's partner Mick wouldn't let us move back in with them (Jamie had moved in there after he left The Cow) and Jamie couldn't afford to get a place of his/our own. I wasn't allowed to work, remember. So, in June, somehow it transpired that a friend (ex-friend now) of Jamie's - someone with whom he had previously discussed sharing a house with - got in touch and came up with a plot to get us to share rent and bills in a house in Barrow-Upon-Soar. Now, Barrow is the village in which Jamie had lived for 14 years with The Cow. And, this "friend" was still (as she is to this day) friends with Lady Bovine (I've tired of calling her "The Cow").

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Yeah, anyone with the proverbial one eye and half sense could tell this was a disaster waiting to happen, but Jamie had yet to lose faith in all of his old acquaintances (the ones who had been "friends" (I use this term loosely, at least in regards to Jamie) of both him and Her Ladyship Moo. The pathetic fact is, he ended up losing the majority of them, because even though she claimed to have told them that she was happy with the split and that it was the best for them both, they chose her "side" anyway. There were only a very few that accepted me and remained friends with Jamie. He came to say, "Marry an American and learn who your true friends are."

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Everything inside me was screaming, 'NOOOOOOOOOOO! Please not there, and not with her!', but I didn't want to seem insecure and get into an argument about it...and, it wasn't like I had another option handy. Plus, I had other things on my mind at the time, like finding out where we stood immigration wise and just what our options were on that front.

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The house was ugly but, when Jamie was home, we filled it with warmth and love. Now that we were no longer in Loughborough, I couldn't meet him for lunch anymore, but I could be waiting for him - naked on the stairs - when he got home (fortunately The BlondeBimboBitch (we'll just refer to her as BBB from here on in) because of her work schedule, was always out at the time he came home). Other than the fact that Jamie had to constantly remind her for her part of the rent and expenses, most of the time she stayed out of our way. So, it was...bearable. After all, the important thing was, we were together! Living in Barrow brought me down a bit, though. I didn't feel like I could go out and walk around during the day like I could in Loughborough. However, being stuck in the house can have it's advantages: I had plenty of time to do some research and find out some important things to do with our situation (and, looking back, our living situation was going to get much worse before it got better; I have to admit that, comparatively, Barrow wasn't all that bad).

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Dana being the superhero he is, once again, came to the rescue. See, Dana has a gift at finding things that need to be found, and what he found for me was a website devoted to people like me, who are American and have British significant others, that had a treasure trove of information - and even an immigration advisor to ask questions to - about what is involved with moving to the UK legally. Basically we found out that it takes going through a whole lot of redtape, paperwork and expense, but I also found out that even though I would have to go back to the States to apply for a spousal visa, we could get married there and then if we wanted to. And, of course, we wanted to. *Since Jamie and I married, they have again changed the rules and you are not allowed to marry on a vistor's visa or equivilent (as I had stamped in my passport); if you plan on marrying in the UK, you must now secure a fiancé visa. The registry office will turn you away without one now. We just made it in on the tail end of a lighter set of rules.

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The news that we could get married thrilled us no end, and was just the lift we needed, since it seemed we had so many things stacked against us - so many things trying to bring us down. We set about right away to arrange everything: we registered at the registry office, Jamie's mum booked a local pub for the reception, and I managed to find something half-way decent to wear (the first thing I had chosen not working because I couldn't find a skirt to go with the green velvet medieval top Jamie had purchased for me when we went to Glastonbury in May). That was all there was to it. I don't now why people get so worked up and plan such huge la-dee-da affairs for weddings. The point should be that you are making a binding commitment to the one you love. So it was, on Saturday, the 18th of September, 2004, Jamie and I were wed at the Loughborough Registry office, surrounded by his family.

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The next month went by in a whirl. At the end of October my six months were up; it was time to go back to the States and pray that I would be given the required Visa that would allow me to return to The Reason I Breathe.

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Some may wonder why we "chose" to have me immigrate to Great Britain instead of having Jamie come to America. The answer is rather simple: as [increasingly] difficult as it is for one to immigrate to the UK, it is quite a deal harder to immigrate to the US and, for us, it would have simply been an impossibility: I would have had to have had all the things I didn't have: a bank account (with money in it), a job, and a place for us both to live, along with the proof that I could support us until Jamie could get a job. The work culture in the UK is much different to what it is in the US. Indeed, it's much better than it is in the US! And, even if I had all those things I didn't have, finding Jamie a decent job in the States would have been nigh unto impossible...but, that didn't matter anyway as I didn't have those other things. So, while it was not an easy thing to leave my kids, it was the only way for us to be together. And, with the exception of being so far from the kids (and the rest of my family), my life is sooooo much better here than it ever was or could have been in the States.

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Saying goodbye at Gatwick when I had to leave was one of the most painful things Jamie and I ever had to go through. People that haven't had to go through this kind of thing cannot begin to understand the anquish. I get blank stares when I tell some people this part of the story because they are unable to grasp the kind of sorrow I'm talking about. There aren't words adequate to describe it. I sobbed the entire eight hour plane ride back. I was literally physically ill by the time I arrived in Orlando. Jamie didn't fare much better alone on the train back to Barrow. But, at least, I had Dana to pick me up and hold me while I wept. Jamie had nothing to hold but the pain of not having me to hold and the fear that it might be a long time before he held me again.

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We were terrified that I wouldn't get the Visa: as I have said, I had no savings, no job, no bank account. All we had were Jamie's bank account and job and a letter of support from his mum. Thanks to the information I had received from the UKYankee website, I had already applied and paid the fee for the Visa online via the British Home Offices Official website; I had all my paperwork done, and was ready, as soon as I stepped off the plane in Orlando and was handed back my passport, to drop my passport in with all the papers, pictures, supporting documents (marriage certificate, lease agreement, proof of Jamie's work status, both our letters of intent, Jamie's mum's letter of support, Jamie's and his mum's bank statements, Jamie's pay slips), etc, to overnight FedEx them to the NY British Consulate - which, I did.

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All we had left to do now was to hurry up and wait. Stress doesn't begin to describe the state of anxiety we were in. I had family to visit and Dana to catch up with, but my heart wasn't in it because my heart wasn't there; I had left it behind in England. I was scared, so scared, I was going to be denied. I wouldn't be OK until I knew that I had been approved. It had been so long since my family had seen me, but I just wasn't "there" until I had word that I had gotten the Visa.

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Fortunately I only had to sweat and panic for THREE DAYS (they were a very looooong three days, but, thankfully, only three days), when I heard the doorbell ring and I knew it was the FedEx Man with my package from the Consulate! The overwhelming relief was, well, overwhelming in the extreme. After calming down enough to be understandable, I tried calling Jamie to give him the news. His mobile was off!!! I had to leave a bloody message! I couldn't believe it. So, since I was sending e-mails out to everyone who had been following what was going on, there were loads of people who had the happy news before Jamie did. When, at last, Jamie heard the message on his phone, he immediately called me and we shouted and laughed and cried tears of relief and joy together. We knew the war wasn't over - since the spousal Visa is only good for two years, after which one must shell out an additional £500 (which is non-refundable - if they don't approve you, they don't give you the money back...of course, if they don't approve you, the loss of nearly $1000 is the least of your worries), fill out more paperwork, supply even more documents and "proof", jump through more hoops in order to satisfy the Home Office to apply for Indefinite Leave to Remain, or ILR for short, which is the thing I am presently panicking over - but, we had won this one battle and we could breathe freely once again!

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I still had four weeks to endure (we had already booked my flight so that I would have an itinerary - which is one of the things they ask for - to give to the Consulate, and, since we didn't know how long it would take them, we wanted to give them a good window of time to work in) before I would be back with my Beautiful Man. We had the tremendous relief from the piercing agony of not knowing when we would ever see each other again, but we still had the aching agony of separation to endure; Jamie would call me every week and we would spend the hour crying. We survived the time through those phone calls, the internet and a webcam, and a whole lot of prayer to keep sane!

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I find it extremely sad that the majority of the time I tell this story, I find very few that can identify with what I am talking about, and I don't mean the whole immigration frustration. I mean, it's difficult to find many that understand the nature of mine and Jamie's relationship itself. It's hard to get people to comprehend the concept of interdependence, I assume because for so long they (especially women) have been advised to be independent, and because few have been witness to a real interdependent relationship. As I pointed out in Part One, too few have seen such a thing, many less have experienced it, and so have become very cynical - to the point of sheer stupidity about relationship matters. They've seen co-dependence (the counterfeit of interdependence) and have understandably - and rightly - been turned off by that, and so have gone to the other extreme which is just as unhealthy. As I said in an article I wrote on this subject, I am utterly and completely dependent upon my husband. He is strong where I am weak. He supports me. By the same token, my husband is completely dependent upon me. I am strong where he is weak. I support him. We are interdependent, meaning we are:

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Interdependent (adjective)

1. depending on each other
unable to exist or survive without each other


2. with mutually dependent elements

relying on mutual assistance, support, cooperation, or interaction among constituent elements or members.

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Yes, I am unashamed to declare, I NEED HIM. So too, he needs me. I could not function, and life would be an utter devastation (like it was before him), without him; indeed, I would have no life at all (like it was before him). So too, he requires my light to lead him in his dark places. This is as it should be. It should be perfectly understandable, our desperation - our need - to be together, but I get loads of those blank stares or, worse, the rolling eyes. I find this attitude infuriating but, as I said, it also saddens me because it's so wide spread. To get a clearer picture of what I am talking about, I recommend reading the piece I wrote on interpendence in its entirety, found here: http://uk.blog.360.yahoo.com/blog-sVyexTw0daG_Lvvh73ervK29y8mi0.CI?p=30

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So, we ploughed through the days and weeks, minutes and hours; I got to spend Thanksgiving with my family, which was good. Then, at the end of November, the time came for me to go back and be rejoined with The Reason I Breathe. This time, with Visa in hand and only a five minute interrogation, I was let through (remember, I had been "flagged", so they were waiting for my name to come back up; but they knew they had no right to hold me or refuse me, because their Consolate had already given me the "all clear", so to speak. It was annoying to be cornered and questioned again, but this time I was confident, not terrified as I was before; I stayed calm, answered the IO's enquiries matter-of-factly, she then stamped my passport and let me go).

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I ran into Jamie's waiting, open arms; at last, I was home. Next would come my education in what living here means, and entails... but, you can read about that in Part Three, along with seeing the power of that all important interdependence in action!

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Stay Tuned! The Story Continues...