It's A Nice Day for A White Wedding

Nothing was how I would have liked it. Wrong dress, wrong shoes, face broken out, guests I would have wanted all out of the country.

My shotgun wedding to the Queen, as I started referring to my citizenship ceremony, was today. The only thing right about it was that I now have a piece of paper that gives me the right (well, as soon as I get a passport, which is a whole other production), for the rest of my life, to live and work in the UK. (Or as I texted O., "Who needs a British man?")I didn't want to take the job in New York without it, so I had to pay £125 for a private ceremony (yes, the ceremony is required).

I felt strangely emotional during the ceremony – literally on the verge of tears. It was mostly a blur. The woman conducting it – who eavesdropped on my conversation with my two friends and actually commented on what we were talking about -- chastised me for reading my affirmation of allegiance too quickly. Then she read some prepared text that included something about hoping I play in active role in civic life and sit on school boards, and I had a flash of my imaginary young British son in his t-strap shoes, vanishing like something out of the film Back to the Future as I leave the country next month. I thought wistfully about my dad, who would have enjoyed the cultural experience (he actually would have flown over if he'd had enough notice), and one of my best friends, who is abroad and doesn't even know that I've taken the job, let alone that I would have wanted her to be there to watch me preserve my right to leave it and come back here.

Then the woman busted out an ipod and clicked it to play the tune of "God Save the Queen." She stared at me expectantly.

The music played. I waited, thinking maybe there would be a voice or some other cue telling me when to sing, but no.

"I'll start it over," she said, sounding irritated.

I felt like a child who hadn't done the homework caught out by a pop quiz. I don't know the words to "God Save the Queen," – I'm actually not sure I've ever heard it sung. (Why didn't they put it on that damn Life in the UK test I had to take when I applied for my residency a couple of years ago?)

She handed me a black binder with the words and – sounding like she was rather enjoying my discomfort -- said, "I'm not singing. But you have to sing. I'll turn up the music so maybe it will drown you out."

My two friends (one of whom was born British and herself didn't know the words; the other of whom got her citizenship last year) and I looked at each other and tried not to laugh. The woman dutifully turned up the music and my friends and I crowded around the binder.

The music started and so did I. The voice of my friend who sings in a chorus soared above us: "Happy and Glorious,/Long to reign over us;/God save the Queen!"

I was then given a passport cover – apparently Islington (my borough) did a poll to determine that people would prefer that to paperweights or mugs. (Are polls about gifts given to new citizens why we pay so much council tax? I certainly hope not.)

Then not one but two of the places we wanted to go for a tea (not tea as in scones and jam, just a cup of tea) were closed and I proceeded to spend 40 minutes trying to work out how and if I could apply for a passport before I leave the country. (Verdict: I'm still not sure.)

I felt exhausted, but I decided I'd have a more productive evening if I went to Pilates first (I will miss that class so much – I know for a fact there is nothing like it in New York). Then I had a not-exactly-celebratory egg and bacon sandwich and came home to work on my American taxes and freak out about how much I have to do.