Immigrants living in Britain haven’t had the best time recently. Granted, few people have had a pleasant time over the past year and a half; still, we have arguably had it worse. First there were the Brexit years, in which politicians tripped over themselves to tell voters how little they liked us.
Then, as things were starting to – finally, cautiously – calm down, the pandemic hit. Suddenly, we got stuck in this country, with no way of seeing our friends or families. You may be tempted to produce the world’s smallest violin at this point: after all, we chose to make this place our home, and no one forced us to move.
I have come to think of it as a marriage – you can love someone very much and decide to spend the vast majority of your time with them, but that does not mean that you never want to socialise with anyone else. If you can sympathise with friends being sick to death of the sight of their spouse by the fourth month of lockdown, surely you can sympathise with us?
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