I’m about to expire.
It’s a funny thing, an expiration date. On a carton of milk it’s more like a well-intended suggestion, allowing a few days’ grace period, but when you try to use your credit card even one day past the expiration date you’ll find yourself unapologetically denied. I’ve often joked that when my date comes up on the calendar men in army fatigues will break down my door, stuff me in a black unmarked car, and deliver me to the airport where I’ll be unceremoniously thrown in the cargo hold and deported back to America. I have no idea what would happen, or how much leeway there is in regard to my particular expiration date. What would happen if I just carried on with what I’m doing and didn’t get on that plane on March 7th? With as many incompetent government employees as there are, surely nobody would notice right away. What if they did? Would I then get a big black ‘X’ in my passport that would make it impossible to ever come back to the UK? I’ve already said I’ve been to Northampton for the last time. Maybe I’d at least get a free flight home.
Ten days until I expire. And I still don’t know what happens after that.