One year ago today, I got off the plane in Phoenix, ready to begin my new life… It seems like a millenium: I was single, the World Trade Center was still standing, and the first American with whom I had significant contact, was a Customs Officer, who grilled me for what seemed like an entire twelve months in itself over the plaster of paris in my luggage, suspecting it was drugs. How things change – nowadays, he’d probably assume it was anthrax.

Yes, I’ve survived an entire year in Arizona, and have reached the end of it without (fingers crossed) acquiring any malignant melanomas. Despite what I said above, the time has actually flown past, and I feel sure I must have hibernated for three or four months at least, entering a state of suspended animation when the air-conditioning broke down, or something like that. Actually, the heat, originally suspected to be a major problem, turned out to be nowhere near as much of a problem. Back in my youth, my mother spent most of the summer trying to persuade me to play outside because it was a “lovely day”. She also tried to make me eat vegetables. Now I’m an adult, I don’t have to do either.

I’m now thoroughly used to all the stuff that seemed so strange to start with: cinemas in which you can’t book actual seats, just a vague promise of admission; free refills on soft drinks in restaurants; commercials on the BBC [or at least, BBC America], interrupting the likes of Fawlty Towers and Red Dwarf to sell you compilation CDs of the best ukelele ballads, volume 3. Coping with this is now all part of regular existence, and demonstrates the remarkable flexibility and resilience of the human spirit. Er, or something like that.

Credit where credit’s due though: that the process of transition has been so painless must largely been due to my fiancee [a word I’m still formally getting used to!] Chris, who has smoothed over all the bumps in my road, and is undoubtedly the #1 thing I’ll be giving thanks for tomorrow – it being my second Thanksgiving in America. “Second”: more proof I’ve been here for a complete cycle of the seasons, and I’ve learned from last year’s mistakes, not the least of which might be that there is such a thing as too much honey-baked ham.

Meanwhile, progress towards getting married is slowly being made, though my Mother appears to be well ahead of any vague plans we have formulated – she has had some 34 years start on us. Part of me doesn’t want to get married any more: but before Chris (sitting next to me), has a fit, I should point out that I do still want to be married – it’s just the actual ‘getting’ part that seems to be as much a chore as a pleasure!

Right, that’s your lot – we’ve closed up shop for four days (we’ve got a lot to be thankful for!), which should give us enough time to plough through the turkey and out the other side. A Happy Anniversary to me, a Happy Thanksgiving to our American readers, and to all our British ones, a Happy…er, two-and-a-bit-weeks-past-Bonfire-Night. 🙂

There you go. That’s this week’s big piece of news, which might come as a surprise, or might not. I’d always viewed marriage as an outdated institution – you’re either committed to a person, or you’re not, and the presence of a ring isn’t going to make the slightest bit of difference. But try telling that to the immigration people here in the States, who are clearly an old-fashioned bunch.

No matter how long I live with my one true love, I’d always be at the mercy of my temporary work residency – were I to be fired from my position as webmaster of trashcity.com, I would theoretically have to leave the country immediately. Though since said employer is also my one true love (for immigration purposes, concepts like “joint partners” aren’t any good either), I like to think I have a certain amount of job security.

It will also allow Chris to become a McLennan, divesting herself of another remnant of her previous marriage, a nightmare she is otherwise reminded of every time she signs a cheque. Changing your name any other way is, I’m told, a somewhat troublesome process, but announce you’re getting married and it all kinda happens by default. Think the kids are going to hang on to their names – well, they are used to them – which might lead to some interesting times going through immigration. Yes, these are my kids. No, they don’t have the same name as me. Nor their biological mother.

As I write this, Chris is looking into booking venues for the wedding and receptions, with her customary fervour. It’s probably going to be back in Britain, but she’s used to long-range planning, having previously co-ordinated parties, including a surprise one for me, with the aid of much furtive maneouvering and a copy of the London Yellow Pages. Plotting a wedding from 5000 miles away should be a piece of cake – albeit a large cake, with two little figures on the top of it.

Part of me begrudges the money. Many venues appear to work on the principle that bickering over the odd thousand for your daughter’s wedding would be churlish, but we are actually paying for the damn thing ourselves. Hell, you could buy a really big plasma screen – or even two – for some of the prices we have heard: we just want to feed and water a few guests, not buy them cars and start them all up in business. I would be happy with a few sausage rolls and a six-pack of Irn-Bru – as long as we got the his and hers pair of plasma screens, of course.

So I come to the end of my first year in America: selling beads for a living, engaged to be married, and perfectly content to be both. How life does change…