In the name of David - citizenship part 4

This post is part of a series covering a story of seeking Italian citizenship. The story starts here.

Signora proceeded to check through my documents in the methodical manner expected of a career funzanario. I’d like to have thought being a civil servant myself would allow me to appreciate the economy of movement of paper shuffling and instant analysis of the facts, but not in this case; my nerves were too fraught.

The overall tenor of proceedings was not much better than the inauspicious start. Going through the historical record of my family as explained through certificates detailing births, marriages, divorces and deaths her reactions were mostly a series of raised eyebrows, minor head shakes and a tut of the tongue.

An occasional question was answered by me, before we finally made it to my father’s details, at which point things became a little sticky.

Signora, in the eagle-eyed manner you would expect, spots a discrepancy. The issue in question arises from a difference in my father’s name on his birth certificate with his name on mine - specifically that’s he gained an additional middle name - David.

Being of Italian stock that side of my family was raised as catholics, and although I am not religious myself my ancestors (and particularly my grandparent and their parents) were. In the UK it is traditional for children, at the time of the rite of confirmation into the church, to take an additional middle name of religious significance, for example a Saint. 

 

I tried to explain this point to her but to no avail. I subsequently learned that the tradition described above is not practiced in Italy - thus her nonplussed eyebrow raise at my reasoning.

Oh dear.

By this point I was resigned to the fact that my bona fides were not of sufficient fidelity to meet the bar, but Signora must have taken pity on me - she declared the paperwork in order, except for the matter of the erroneous middle name.

She explained that all I needed to do was call my local registry office and make a correction or annotation to my birth certificate to explain the issue, then send a translated and apostilled copy of the new certificate back to her, at which point she’d process the application.

And that was that.

I left the consulate via the cash desk, at which point I divested myself of c£250 for the application process, before heading back across London to Paddington station and the train home to Bristol.

A sense of relief of sorts washed over me - I was still in the game as it were, but with yet more bureaucratic hoops to jump through. Nonetheless, pleased that I could deal with some home country officialdom instead I thought things would get a little easier from this point on.