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Gosh, it’s hard work being a nimmigrant

I’m selling my mama’s farm. Yeah, I don’t really want to talk about it. I got an offer I could, but really shouldn’t, refuse. She’ll come back to haunt me for this, I swear.

Anyway, the lawyer wants the papers notarized and FedEx’ed back. Easy, right? Pff! No.

I cruised by my bank — bank managers are usually notaries, right? — pff! No. The teller didn’t even know what a notary is. The local solicitors knew, but didn’t have one on staff.

Turns out there are only, like, 900 notaries* in all of Britain. The nearest one was miles and miles away. By appointment only.

He was nice enough. Semi-retired corporate lawyer. He explained why they’re so scarce — to start with, they’re usually lawyers, and then they get three years of specialist training in things like Roman law (!).

I told him my grandfather was a notary and the bar wasn’t so high in the States. In the old days at least, all you had to do was get five people to swear you were a pretty good guy.

Anyway, he made me swear on the Bible! Twice! Then he stamped everything and sewed my deed together with green ribbon and charged me £80 — which is, like, $120. Phew.

But at least shipping it back with be a breeze, right? Pff! No!

*That isn’t including the Worshipful Company of Scriveners of the City of London, which are lawyers who speak multiple languages for some reason.

August 7, 2014 — 9:45 pm
Comments: 30