Dear gods, was I that bad in a past life?
Jan. 2nd, 2007 11:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonlettuceSo, thinks me. I have tickets to a con, flights booked and a possible hotel *glances at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
temaris*
All I need now is to renew my passport. Can't be that difficult.
Ha! The gods mock me!
Firstly, I need photos. That's okay, I'll get photos done at the place I'm going to renew my travel pass at (mainly because I totally forgot about the bank holidays and left it too late to do online).
Only, apparently not. Because the lovely sign in the travelshop says that, due to new restrictions, their photos are no longer the correct specifications for passports.
Bugger.
*looks around*
A-ha! (And not the misunderstood Norwegian pop band, either.)
A photo booth. Two of them! (This becomes relevant later on - trust me.)
Bugger again. No change.
Cue a quick dive into the nearest newsagent to buy the first thing I see, which is a Cadbury's Double Decker. Armed with change, an unwanted chocolate bar and a resolute, yet bouncy, outlook on life, I descend upon the photo booth.
I primp and preen... well, okay, I take my hair out of the ponytail and give it a bit of a shake.
I put my money in and... nothing happens. The bastard machine ate my £3.50. (And also: dude! The last time I was in one of these it was £2. £2! I realise inflation happens, but come on!)
However, I am still determined (and driven on by the thought of the porn).
Go to the cashpoint, get more money. Back to the newsagent, but another unwanted chocolate bar (a Mars this time, for those who care.) Back to the other photo booth.
Success!
My face is in the red oval, smack the green button, wait for them to develop.
I must say, at these point, these are not good photos. I look pretty terrible, but at this point I don't care. I have photos on my grubby little mits (well, tucked into a book to stop them creasing, but who's paying attention at this point). I am triumphant.
I'm also ignoring the snickering going on in the Heavens, because, dude, if I ignore it, maybe they'll go away.
Back home and I get the passport application out. They have a funky little 'This is what your photo should look like' helpsheet. With measurements. For the love of Hewlett, it's 10:30pm, I shouldn't be measuring my face to make sure it's less than 34 millimetres in length. I also shouldn't have my glasses frames covering my eyes. I squint at the photo. Well, you can see my eyes, but the frames are kinda low down. And now you mention it, my face is kinda close. And aren't I meant to have a clear 'border' around my head?
...
Dear gods, I'm going to need new photos aren't I?
*breathes deeply*
That's okay, I just get new photos (costing another £3.50!) tomorrow, and fill in the form now.
*picks up pen*
*frowns*
*puts pen back down*
Why? I hear you ask. Because in big letters at the side of the passport application is: IMPORTANT. USE BLACK INK ONLY.
*frantic hunt through desk drawers*
Y' see, the thing is, I don't write in black. All my pens are blue ink. With the occasional glittery purple, but if they ain't taking blue, I don't think that'll go down well.
*thinks*
Yes! I have a black pen!
*hunts around looking for said elusive item*
Celebration! Elation! Exultation! Joy! Jubilation! Merriment! (And other words nicked from Thesaurus.com)
I have found the one black pen in the house.
*twitches*
And it doesn't work.
Claire's neighbour: Why, what's that sound, dear?
Claire's neighbour's spouse: I've no idea, but it sounds like someone repeatedly smacking their head off a wall.
So now I have no change, two unwanted chocolate bars, photos that aren't any use (and cost me £7!), no black pen and an increasingly homicidal outlook on life.
And still no completed passport application.
*sigh*
At least tomorrow's got to be better.
Right?
Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
temaris*All I need now is to renew my passport. Can't be that difficult.
Ha! The gods mock me!
Firstly, I need photos. That's okay, I'll get photos done at the place I'm going to renew my travel pass at (mainly because I totally forgot about the bank holidays and left it too late to do online).
Only, apparently not. Because the lovely sign in the travelshop says that, due to new restrictions, their photos are no longer the correct specifications for passports.
Bugger.
*looks around*
A-ha! (And not the misunderstood Norwegian pop band, either.)
A photo booth. Two of them! (This becomes relevant later on - trust me.)
Bugger again. No change.
Cue a quick dive into the nearest newsagent to buy the first thing I see, which is a Cadbury's Double Decker. Armed with change, an unwanted chocolate bar and a resolute, yet bouncy, outlook on life, I descend upon the photo booth.
I primp and preen... well, okay, I take my hair out of the ponytail and give it a bit of a shake.
I put my money in and... nothing happens. The bastard machine ate my £3.50. (And also: dude! The last time I was in one of these it was £2. £2! I realise inflation happens, but come on!)
However, I am still determined (and driven on by the thought of the porn).
Go to the cashpoint, get more money. Back to the newsagent, but another unwanted chocolate bar (a Mars this time, for those who care.) Back to the other photo booth.
Success!
My face is in the red oval, smack the green button, wait for them to develop.
I must say, at these point, these are not good photos. I look pretty terrible, but at this point I don't care. I have photos on my grubby little mits (well, tucked into a book to stop them creasing, but who's paying attention at this point). I am triumphant.
I'm also ignoring the snickering going on in the Heavens, because, dude, if I ignore it, maybe they'll go away.
Back home and I get the passport application out. They have a funky little 'This is what your photo should look like' helpsheet. With measurements. For the love of Hewlett, it's 10:30pm, I shouldn't be measuring my face to make sure it's less than 34 millimetres in length. I also shouldn't have my glasses frames covering my eyes. I squint at the photo. Well, you can see my eyes, but the frames are kinda low down. And now you mention it, my face is kinda close. And aren't I meant to have a clear 'border' around my head?
...
Dear gods, I'm going to need new photos aren't I?
*breathes deeply*
That's okay, I just get new photos (costing another £3.50!) tomorrow, and fill in the form now.
*picks up pen*
*frowns*
*puts pen back down*
Why? I hear you ask. Because in big letters at the side of the passport application is: IMPORTANT. USE BLACK INK ONLY.
*frantic hunt through desk drawers*
Y' see, the thing is, I don't write in black. All my pens are blue ink. With the occasional glittery purple, but if they ain't taking blue, I don't think that'll go down well.
*thinks*
Yes! I have a black pen!
*hunts around looking for said elusive item*
Celebration! Elation! Exultation! Joy! Jubilation! Merriment! (And other words nicked from Thesaurus.com)
I have found the one black pen in the house.
*twitches*
And it doesn't work.
Claire's neighbour: Why, what's that sound, dear?
Claire's neighbour's spouse: I've no idea, but it sounds like someone repeatedly smacking their head off a wall.
So now I have no change, two unwanted chocolate bars, photos that aren't any use (and cost me £7!), no black pen and an increasingly homicidal outlook on life.
And still no completed passport application.
*sigh*
At least tomorrow's got to be better.
Right?
Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
