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.........

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