My battle with Britain’s mean, ineffective immigration system

When I first came to this country nearly a decade ago, Britain wanted immigrants like me. Back then you could get a visa just for being creative. It was called the ‘Artist, Writer, Composer Visa’ — a Blairite flight of fancy if there ever was one — and all you had to do was fill out a form proving that you’d made a name for yourself in your country of origin in one of those three disciplines. The application, as I recall, made a point of including conceptual artists and sculptors. I’d published a novel in Canada, so I was in. It was that easy. Thinking about it now makes me want to weep.

Back then, Britain was more upbeat. There were jobs in the media and journalists still had expense accounts. Pizza Express was a place in which you might like to eat a pizza. The super-rich hadn’t yet bought up every last lush bit of west London, so when you walked through Holland Park during the day you might see mothers with their children, rather than lonely Filipina servants feeding ducks.

In short, life was good. Better than now, anyway, when the British weather and economy seem locked in a deathmatch for the title of historic new low. And despite this, I find myself back in Canada awaiting yet another visa, separated from my eight-month-old son by an ocean (he had to stay in London with his father for mandatory medical treatment and my residency permit was up) with no clear idea when or if I’ll be allowed back in the country and reunited with my family.

I won’t bore you with the intricacies of my immigration tale, but suffice to say it involves several visas, much ping-ponging across the Atlantic, a 36-hour border detention, over £10,000 in fees (legal and governmental), acres of paperwork and absolutely no hate crimes, terrorist activities or benefit applications on my part.