Day 1 - Spent ages at the Stad de Ville applying for residency card only to be told that I cannot leave the country on the type of visas that we are getting. Husband is free as a bird. Me, not so much. (Since we didn't have regular visas upon entering the country as we only were meant to be here for three months and didn't need them, we are applying for a different type. And apparently, a pretty shitty type.) So here I am. And evidently, here I'll stay.
Day 2 - Am terrified. For my shitty visa, I must have a medical exam by a local practice. They will take my blood and xray my thorax. I don't even know where my thorax is. And I plan to steal my blood back when they're not looking. I fear this could be a disguised kidney harvesting outfit. Or potentially a sex trade middleman. Either way, I will not take off my clothes for any reason. Just let them try to pry my Marc Jacobs bag out of my cold, dead kung fu grip. I imagine they are also planning to micro-chip me like the UK did my cats. Husband tells me he doubts they are that technologically sophisticated and will probably tattoo a barcode on my forehead instead. Wonder if I can get botox at the same time since the needles will already be out and poised in the general vicinity of my worst wrinkles. (But I will cut a bitch who tries to take my vital organs.)
Day 3 - My sources on the outside have spoken with Belgian immigration specialists and tell me the situation may not be as dire as once thought. Evidently, though I am technically not supposed to leave the country, if I did technically leave the country I could not be refused re-entry at the border by law. Don't know why this is but I'll not question it. Their loose immigration procedures are not my business. Freedom may very well be mine.
Day 4 - I'm busting out. Husband will pick me up curbside in an unmarked car and head for the border. Luxembourg by nightfall.