My lovely French husband has made the ultimate sacrifice for me – he’s now officially British | Emma Beddington

In Leeds Civic Hall, I watched 20 new citizens pledge their allegiance to King Charles and his heirs.

But it wasn’t patriotism that brought tears to my eyes I haven’t felt great about asking my husband to become British.

There was the idiotic Life in the UK test that every applicant has to pass; the cost; the faff; and the uncertainty, which still hasn’t ended.

I found out his application had been accepted when he came into the kitchen in June with a face like thunder.

“But that’s brilliant! You’ll never need to know how many Scottish ski resorts there are again!” I said, puzzled.

He explained that, because we’re going on holiday before he can get a British passport to go with his French one, he’ll be in an immigration grey area that could mean he gets refused re-entry.

He should, theoretically, be OK , but it’s confusing.

Why would he even want to come back to this place with its threadbare services, toxic waterways , obsession with “picky bits” and ridiculous politics? His Home Office email arrived just after the Makerfield byelection and that night the news showed the returning officer’s poker-faced declaration again: our future prime minister flanked by a politely clapping Binface and an oversized, blank-eyed fox.

I started laughing, hysterically, guiltily.

What have I done to him? “Will the world go a different colour when I’m British?” he asked on the train to the ceremony.

“Yeah, reverse Wizard of Oz – everything goes grey.” Continue reading...