Chris Bourn's wife had one last thing to do before she could call herself British:
Before she gets to hunt foxes through the Cotswolds at the wheel of a Mini Cooper, there's one last duty her prospective country requires of her: she must attend a formal indoctrina... I mean citizenship ceremony at Bromley Public Hall in Bow. Union Jacks are everywhere in the lavish hall where we wait in nationally undesignated limbo with 40 or so other proto-Britishers and their guests. It's unnerving: you only ever see this sort of flag saturation if you happen to find yourself at the last night of the Proms, or in rabidly unionist parts of Belfast, or inside Richard Littlejohn's boxer shorts. Since we arrived, a stereo has been buzzing background Elgar around the room like a red, white and blue wasp, and by the time we're all ushered in to the chamber where the ceremony is to be held, I'm already feeling a little Britished out.
From Time Out's Big Smoke blog. There was an upside too. Read the whole thing.
