image: parc

Well, f**k me, I passed the sproochentest. It’s a necessary, fairly difficult, test to prove Luxembourgish language skills. It’s required to get the nationality. Well, you can marry a local, or live here twenty years, but, for me, with just five years here, I needed the language.

I knew I did badly, so I knew I failed. I really did do badly, so I failed. But the piece of paper the postman gave me today says I passed. It’s official, and it says I scraped, but I passed. I don’t get it, but I got it. Well, f**k me.

My homeland’s gone insane, screwing up so many people’s lives, and even muttering about destroying the peace that stopped its smouldering civil war. I’m very glad to have the chance to leave that insanity behind me, to get out of range of its mad spittle.

I now have to chase a fifteen year document trail—a lot of paperwork from a lot of countries. I will do it. Luxembourg will be my homeland.

Luxembourg is sane. That’s so sweet.

I’d better start using the language.