the world

Every time chance strikes and things work out as if there was a guiding force I'm left wondering how many times chance doesn't strike, and how many things I miss but not really because I'm not aware.

The other day in the lab I make tea, and while the water is heating up, I glance at the newspaper someone has carelessly tossed next to the kettle. I read something about the upcoming mayoral election. Should be entertaining with Ken and Boris running. Everyone else will be extras. I guess, in the end even Boris will be just an extra, but I digress. What caught my eye was the statement that EU and Commonwealth nationals will be eligible to vote, providing they are registered to do so.

A week or two earlier, I had found a letter from the Council inviting me to do just that. Thinking (correctly) that I'm not British and (incorrectly, as it turns out) that elections are none of my business, I didn't even open the letter. I tossed it onto the ever-growing pile of orphan letters in the hallway, and that was it. (We get mail for a good dozen people who don't live here anymore. It adds up.)

When I came home tonight, I dug deep into the pile and indeed, the letter was still there. Opening it, I found out that, while it might be my right to vote, it is my obligation to register. Penalties for refuseniks were not detailed, but canvassers and admonitory calls promised. I dutifully filled in the form and sent it off.

I could have done this by phone. There was even a number for foreigners, with-pick-your language options. And mighty curious these options were. Arabic and Somali I can understand. There's a ton of them around and many, Somalis especially, had other priorities than learning English before coming here – like surviving perpetual tribal warfare, for example. Serbian and Albanian I can accept also. There's not too many of them around, and it could be argued that the world would be a better place if they took English classes together instead of violently arguing over whose territorial rights are holier, but I admit they've gone through hard times. But what is it with Italian and French? How did these make it into the list? What's their excuse?

No one apart from asylum seekers has an excuse for not speaking the language of the country they live in. This is not accepted wisdom in the UK. When I got my National Insurance numbers today, a Romanian construction worker was sitting next to me. All he could do was say his name, gesticulate wildly and point at a calendar to indicate dates. Will he get permission to work? Well, if he does he will contribute to London's being the great, colorful, cosmopolitan city it is. Mulţumesc.