It’s probably worthwhile to reflect over why I went to the U.K. -- and London -- in the first place. Fair enough, I was captivated by the people and the places I’d seen in England -- and I thought it was a place of destiny for me.
I also had friends there -- lots of musicians -- and found life there, as in New York, a struggle still but very nice. That was, until. . . well, more unfortunate things happened to me on a personal level that I can’t even put in words here, on a screen or a page. I’d met some disrespectful men who didn’t honor the words, “NO!” It came as a shock to me, and was totally depressing and humiliating. . . and it only happened to me in England.
At one point, I thought that I’d marry an Englishman, but the closest I came was asking Patrick to marry me for convenience if it came down to that -- if I really wanted to stay and it was the only thing that would keep me in the country. A true gentleman, he nodded, yes, I’d do that for you. That thought -- to marry for convenience -- was fleeting, thankfully: I believe in marrying for more legitimate reasons, like romantic/sexual love. . . and stuff that I could go on for quite a while about. But, mercifully, I won’t!
In London I also learned that, for some reason, I wasn’t being taken seriously as a musician and writer, and I didn’t know how to change that. Perhaps everyday life as a young cocktail waitress was so full of struggle and distraction that I didn’t even have the energy or the nerve to try to make a change and show how serious I was. I did, however, spend a lot of time clacking away at my typewriter, writing letters home to various & sundry family & friends (I used those blue foldover air letters from the Post Office -- they were economical and forced me to write just the amount that fit, like a journalistic assignment).
In England, there was a common comment about my hair color -- I dyed it black in NYC because I liked that look -- was, “Oh, why are you doing that? Come on, grow it back to your own natural, pretty brown colour, darlin’.” Jeez, even when it was brown, it had been hennaed with a reddish rinse from age 20 on. I never liked mousy brown colored hair: not interesting enough. Anyway, this lack of being accepted for a dramatic look was kind of tiresome. . . nobody in NYC gave a rat’s ass about my hair color, or at least they had the sense to keep it to themselves.
So. Many strikes were mounting against me staying in the U.K. And then, I heard from immigration: my visa would not be renewed past November 1982. I’d have to leave the U.K. unless I did something drastic, like marry Patrick.
Lovely man, great friend, good looking gent, but -- no way!