"Hey! Do you still reckon I'm alright?"

"In what sense?"

"In all the senses."

"Well… you look nice. But you're a wee bit mental!"

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I promise this blog isn't turning into What's New Dawg, but people often ask me about my wee pretend dog Kenco, who Gareth sponsored for a Christmas 2005 gift through the Dogs Trust. I'm sad to report that I got a letter to say that Kenco has passed away.

They say he was a boisterous hound. Loved: Football. Hated: Being disturbed while eating. I only wish I'd met him; clearly we had a lot in common.

I always imagined he'd be a real sweetie until I saw this photo of him earlier this year:

Doesn't he look like a rocket? A real little scrapper. Somehow those fangs and manic eyes made me love him even more. So it almost seemed appropriate that he died in a fight. Well, they called it "a quarrel with one his kennel mates" in the letter, but I like to think it was some kind of canine turf war. He was rushed to the vets but had suffered from internal injuries so they made the difficult decision to put him to sleep.

As you can see from the tributes on his page on DoggySnaps.com, he was a popular boy. I dare you not to get hopelessly hooked on that website, it's like a four-legged Facebook!

So Kenco will be missed, but there are other hounds in need of virtual friends. They've transferred our sponsorship to a dog called Peter Pan (Loves: Squeaky toys. Hates: Other dogs) and he looks almost as cheeky.

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GARETH:  So when you get deported back to Australia do you think they'll put you in one of those detention camps?

SHAUNA: They don't put you in a camp for going back to your own country!

G: Yeah they do! I bet there's a special Detention Camp for Ejected Spouses. Somewhere remote like Broome. Or the Bungle Bungles!

S:  Did you learn all your Australian geography from Neighbours?

G:  They'll make you eat grubs and berries! But I'm sure they'll let you out now and then to paint some landscapes.

S:  Will you visit me?

G:  Hmmm… maybe once a year. Until the novelty wears off. Then we'll slowly drift apart.

Thanks, dear comrades, for tolerating my Entry o' Insanity last week. The situation is so stupid that we can almost laugh about it now. What else can you do? The fact remains we're genuinely married, so this is just an extremely annoying blip along the road to proving it.

I have put in four years of wholehearted law-abiding tax-paying residency so slinking back to Australia is not an option. So we shall deal with things as calmly as possible and/or bombard them with more evidence until they surrender. If they don't, there's lawyers and appeal processes.

And if it comes down to some sort of Green Card-ish interview, I say BRING IT ON. I'm a far more convincing actress than Andie stinking MacDowell.

The Bungle Bungles of Western Australia

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Still on the train. Gareth just called me to say a letter from the Home Office arrived. Ooh, my permanent resident visa, yay!

BUT NO YAY. Application DENIIIIIED! 

They're saying I did not include enough documentary evidence to indicate we're still living together in the married way. They asked for 10-20 pieces of evidence from at least 5 different sources, I sent 20 from 13 different sources. I spent weeks making sure I had the right blend of documents, checking 1000 times they were all there, even including a cover letter with everything carefully numbered. It is completely baffling.

I have 28 days to resubmit my application with more evidence, otherwise it's ball and chain and PJs with arrows and back to New Holland for me. I honestly have no idea what else I could possibly send! It's all there! They only want sensible documents like bank statements and tax letters, a 10000 word declaration of my undying committment to Dr G and bonny Scotland wouldn't help my case. I'm trying to get through to the HO on the phone to find out exactly where I went wrong but anyone who's ever gone through this process knows that's near impossible.

I know this is all beaurocracy and I'm trying to stay calm and rational, but it makes me feel kind of ill that someone could possibly think we're not the real deal. Why would I shove my fat arse into that wedding dress three times unless I really loved the guy? Why would I endure soggy Scottish chips and soggy Scottish winters IF NOT FOR LOVE?!

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Three years ago today, love was shiny and new and I could still barely make eye contact without blushing. I'd cleverly ranted and raved in advance about crappy overpriced Valentines flowers that only last a day, so I was chuffed when Gareth showed up on my doorstep with a plant. I christened him Duncan!

I've destroyed every other plant I've ever owned, including a trio of Unkillable Cactii. But Duncan has marched on and on, strong and unruly and rather primeval looking in his dinky pot that looks like it was crafted from the walls of a Swedish sauna.

I like to think his flourishing is some sort of symbol of our relationship, but to be honest it's more likely because Gareth remembers to water the poor bastard.

Happy V-Day, Doc!

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