My cousin the alien

My cousin Steve is going for the full deck. Having got married to Meg late last year, he's got a new job and they're moving house later this week. However, I don't think some bloke in a Transit van is going to be much use to them on this occasion, as they're moving to Boston. (The American one, if you're reading this in Lincolnshire).

I can't help singing "More Than a Feeling" whenever I read that back to myself. Is that wrong?

Meg, being originally from Pennsylvania, can flit across the Atlantic with nary a care. Steve, being very British, needs to complete some paperwork to live and work over there. Quite a bit of paperwork, as it turns out.

He's needed financial statements, references from employers, police checks, health checks and X-rays. X-rays? Wowsers. Meg is officially classed as his sponsor, which must bring all sorts of schemes into play:

M: Honey, can you do the washing up?
S: I'm a little busy right now.
M: Riiiight. What's the phone number for the immigration people again?
S: I'm right onto it.

Steve got various things in his passport and a sheaf of documents that must be handed to the immigration officers when they first arrive. This last set was in a hefty sealed manila envelope, with stern instructions that it could not, under pain of immediate deportation, be opened by Steve and Meg. So, when asked by airport security whether anyone's given him a sealed package to take on board the flight, Steve will have a bit of dilemma.

When telling me about this process, he was keen to mention his new status - Legal Immigrant. Alternatively, he said, he could be referred to as a Legal Alien.

And I'm sorry, but there's no choice, is there? Who wouldn't want to be an alien? So not only do I get two new readers in Massachusetts, I have a cousin with the glowing index finger and healing of pot plants and stuff.

Ace.