on becoming british

(ish)

On a gloomy Tuesday afternoon last week, I stood in a carpeted ballroom in London’s old Marylebone Town Hall and swore an oath to God and King Charles III. I pledged, among other things, to be a loyal, law-abiding subject and good general all round good girl; in return I was ‘naturalised’ as a citizen of the country I’ve called home for roughly the past two decades.

I could have opted out of the God part but decided to go with the full religious version on principle. My thinking was not, as you might assume, guided by Occam’s Razor (also known as the ‘law of parsimony’) which dictates when one is presented with two competing theories — such as whether or not to make an effort to appear God-fearing — probs best to error on the safe side. Instead my choice was inspired by a wholly different philosophical principle. A moral rule of my own invention which I’ll call the Law of Fine-I’ll-Wear-A-Stupid-Hat-to-Your-Stupid-Wedding-in-Wiltshire.