Week Two: Flapjacks, Citizenship, and the Art of Being Present

Monday was the day I'd been working towards for eight years. Wednesday marked my final beginner salsa class. And somewhere between those milestone moments, I discovered that homemade flapjacks are apparently the universal language of British workplace integration.

If week one of this grand reinvention was about nervous anticipation, week two has been about the peculiar satisfaction of small victories and the strange comfort of finally, officially, belonging somewhere.

Burgundy Passport Blues (The Good Kind)

Standing in Birmingham Council House on Monday morning, surrounded by other soon-to-be-British citizens from every corner of the world, I felt an emotion I hadn't expected: relief. Not excitement, not pride (though both came later), but pure, overwhelming relief.

For eight years, I've been living with a kind of background anxiety I'd barely acknowledged – the constant, low-level awareness that my presence here was conditional, subject to renewal, dependent on maintaining the right visa status and keeping my nose clean. Even as I built a life, published a book, and planted roots in this grey-skied city I've grown to love, there was always that whisper of impermanence.

The oath itself was surprisingly moving. "I will give my loyalty to the United Kingdom and respect its rights and freedoms" – words I'd practised, but hadn't expected to feel so deeply. When they handed me that burgundy passport (or rather, the ceremony certificate – the actual passport takes three weeks, apparently), it felt like being handed the key to a room I'd been living in for years but never quite owned.

The teenager in Tehran who dreamed of leaving couldn't have imagined this version of arrival: a bald, thirty-six-year-old man choking up slightly while pledging allegiance to King Charles III in a Birmingham civic building. Life has a sense of humour, it seems.

The Universal Language of Oats and Golden Syrup

Tuesday morning, before my second week at Mappin & Webb began in earnest, I found myself in the kitchen at 6 AM, making flapjacks. Not because I'd planned to, but because something about becoming officially British made me want to contribute something tangibly, recognisably British to my new workplace.

The recipe seemed straightforward enough – butter, golden syrup, oats, a bit of dried fruit and nuts. How difficult could it be? (Famous last words, as any British baker will tell you.) Three attempts and one slightly burnt batch later, I had something that looked reasonably like the flapjacks I'd been buying from Tesco for years.

Walking into work with a container of homemade biscuits felt oddly vulnerable. Would they be too sweet? Too dense? Would my colleagues politely nibble and dispose of them in the nearest bin? But by the end of the day, every last crumb had disappeared, and I'd received enough compliments to make my chest swell with something approaching patriotic pride.

Wednesday, I repeated the performance for my salsa classmates. Same recipe, same nervous presentation, same complete disappearance within minutes. There's something deeply satisfying about feeding people – a kind of care that transcends language barriers and cultural differences. Who knew that oats and golden syrup could be such effective diplomacy?

Dancing Towards Intermediate

Wednesday's final beginner class was bittersweet. Our little group of confused would-be dancers has become genuinely fond of each other over these six weeks. We've shared the particular intimacy that comes from being universally terrible at something together, then gradually, miraculously, becoming slightly less terrible.

For our 'graduation' performance, I partnered with Munira (one of the few who'd managed not to look pained when I occasionally forgot which was my left foot) to demonstrate all the moves we'd learned. The video evidence exists, though I'm not entirely convinced it should. But watching it back, I'm struck by something I hadn't noticed in the moment: I'm actually enjoying myself. Not concentrating so hard that I forget to breathe, not counting obsessively, just... dancing.

The improver classes start in the coming weeks. I'm equal parts terrified and thrilled. There's something addictive about being a beginner again, about that particular rush of accomplishment that comes from mastering something that seemed impossible six weeks ago.

Swiss Complications and Comfortable Shoes

My second week at Mappin & Webb has been a masterclass in the art of admitting ignorance whilst maintaining professional composure. Learning about watch complications (the mechanical kind, though the emotional complications of selling £20,000 timepieces are considerable) feels like studying a beautiful, precise language I'd never known existed.

My colleagues continue to be remarkably patient with questions like "So when someone says 'perpetual calendar,' they mean it quite literally?" and "Is there a polite way to suggest someone might want to consider something... less expensive?" The answers, incidentally, are yes and absolutely not.

I'm beginning to understand why people become passionate about horology. There's something almost meditative about the precision, the centuries of accumulated expertise distilled into a mechanism small enough to wear on your wrist. It's not unlike CAD work, actually – the same appreciation for technical excellence, but with the added dimension of human craft and tradition.

The only cloud on an otherwise sunny week has been my feet. New business shoes and a thirty-six-year-old's feet, it turns out, don't negotiate peacefully. By Wednesday, I was sporting a plaster that made walking an exercise in creative weight distribution. I've since invested in proper insoles and the kind of shoes that prioritise comfort over Italian leather aesthetics. Pride, it seems, is less important than functioning feet.

Culinary Adventures and King Prawns

This week's cooking experiments have been ambitious, bordering on foolhardy. Four new recipes in seven days: Sticky Mango Prawns, Harissa Squash Salad, Chicken Noodle Stir-Fry, and Spring Lamb. Each one a small adventure in flavours I'd never attempted.

Chicken Noodle Sti-Fry

The prawns were a particular revelation – not the cooking, but the preparation. I'd never bought whole king prawns before, and the process of removing heads, shells, and what I can only describe as 'various bits' was initially rather nauseating. But there's something transformative about taking a creature that looks frankly alien and turning it into something delicious. By the third prawn, I'd found an odd sort of meditative rhythm in the process.

Saturday's trip to Birmingham's outdoor markets was a joy. Fresh produce, reasonable prices, and the particular pleasure of chatting with vendors who know their vegetables and aren't afraid to share opinions about the best way to prepare them. It's the kind of shopping that takes twice as long and costs half as much – a trade-off I'm learning to appreciate.

The Heart Wants What It Wants (But Quietly)

I've been hesitating to write about this, held back by some combination of British reserve and immigrant caution. But this blog is meant to be honest documentation, even when the subject matter feels uncomfortably personal.

For most of my adult life, I've been single. Apart from a brief, intense friendship in 2012-2013 (we were both knew it wouldn't last, both treasured it while it did), I've navigated this journey largely alone. It wasn't always by choice, but it was often by necessity. Building a life in a new country, changing careers, learning to be the person I wanted to become – it all required a kind of focus that didn't leave much room for romantic complications.

But now, at thirty-six, officially British and finally feeling genuinely settled rather than provisionally present, I find myself thinking about companionship in a way I haven't allowed myself to for years. Not the passionate intensity of youth, but something quieter, more sustainable. Someone to share Sunday morning coffee with. Someone to plan Christmas holidays with. Someone who might appreciate my increasingly successful flapjack experiments.

I want to meet this hypothetical person in the real world – at a salsa class, perhaps, or while debating the merits of different market vegetables. Dating apps feel too much like shopping, too much like the kind of efficiency I'm trying to leave behind in favour of being genuinely present in my life.

This wanting feels different from goal-setting. You can't spreadsheet your way into love, can't plan for the heart the way you can plan for citizenship or career changes. You can only make yourself into the kind of person worth loving and trust that the rest will follow when it's meant to.

From Crown Jewels to Crown Jewellers

Speaking of things you can't plan for – next week holds what might be the most surreal twist in this already surreal year. I'm travelling to London with my new colleagues to visit Mappin & Webb's workshop and showroom. Nothing unusual there, except for one rather extraordinary detail: we'll be meeting with the jeweller who handles repairs and resizing for the royal crown.

From CAD designer in Tehran to meeting a royal jeweller in London – if someone had suggested this trajectory eight years ago, I'd have recommended they seek professional help.

I keep trying to think of appropriately British ways to express my excitement about this without seeming like a tourist. "Quite looking forward to it" feels insufficient. "Rather chuffed" might be closer. "Absolutely bloody thrilled" is probably too honest.

The End of Provisional Living

What strikes me most about this week is how it's felt less like transition and more like... settlement. The citizenship ceremony wasn't just about official status; it was about the end of a particular kind of anxiety I'd been carrying for eight years. The anxiety of impermanence, of always being slightly prepared to leave, of treating every decision as potentially temporary.

I'm not just learning about watch complications and perfecting flapjack recipes. I'm finally allowing myself to be fully present in the life I've built, rather than always preparing for the next version of it. There's tremendous freedom in that shift – the freedom to make plans that extend beyond visa renewals, to invest emotionally in friendships and communities, to want things that can't be achieved through strategic planning alone.

At thirty-six, I'm finally ready to be where I am, rather than where I think I should be heading next. It's taken eight years, two career changes, one very moving citizenship ceremony, and apparently an upcoming encounter with royal jewellery to get here, but here I am: British, employed in the luxury watch trade, competent at basic salsa steps, and cautiously optimistic about flapjack production.

Next week promises to be extraordinary – improver salsa classes, continued Swiss horology education, and a trip to London that somehow involves the crown jewels. I'll probably experiment with more complex recipes and continue my search for work shoes that don't require plasters. And perhaps, if I'm very lucky, I'll continue learning the art of being present in a life that finally, officially, permanently feels like home.

The provisional living is over. What comes next should be interesting indeed – especially if it involves stories I can tell about meeting the person who adjusts the fit of actual crowns.

Sometimes life writes better plots than fiction ever could.