When worst comes to worst...

Dear readers,

Welcome, welcome. It is, as ever, a delight to have you all here.

Now, being aware that my last post may have gone on for a bit (great for those procrastinators of you, not so fabulous for those with short attention spans (hey Meelz!)), I’m going to make this fairly concise.

The other day I happened to receive an email from a friend. It was a chain mail (my friends aren’t known for putting effort into things). More to the point, it was one of those emails that requires you to fill out answers to questions about yourself and send on to others, so that they too can then fill out information about themselves and mail it on, and back to the original sender, and on and on it goes.

You know the ones. They usually conclude by reminding you that unless you fill them out and return them, you’re officially classed as a godawful friend who, were there to be an email blacklist, would headline it.

Generally speaking I refuse to reply to these emails out of principle. But I do glance through them. And here we come to the point of this post. For in the email being discussed was the question:


What happened to 31 and 32?


… what the hell?

I mean, really. What the hell? Having read this, I questioned the friend who had sent the email on, as to what that was referring to. She had no idea. So not only did I have no clue what I was being asked, but any response would be useless as my friend wouldn’t know what it was I was actually answering either.

So please. Someone, somewhere. Post a comment. Send me an email. Create a blog of your own dedicated to this question and give me the link. Anything. Just… tell me what on earth it means!

I’d appreciate that.


Peace.

Dear readers,

Hello, and welcome to another post. Following the previous update, several of you were kind enough to mail and wish me the best for my latest travel plans. For this I thank you. However, I would be doing a disservice to this blog, and all those who read it, if I allowed anyone to believe this was going smoothly. Even for a moment.

Because it isn’t.

In order not to ramble on for 235 pages, I will confine this particular rant to the topic of The Passport and The Post Office. Which I assure you goes on for long enough, despite my extraordinary attempts to cut it down. I should explain now though, this is not amusing. Well. In a mind-numbing, ‘ha ha, so it happens to other people too’ kind of way, I suppose it might be. For the most part, it’s just ranting.

You’ve been warned.

Anywho.

This drama began over three weeks ago, when I attempted to hand in my passport application… for the first time. Now it should be noted that I, in all my wisdom*, handed this in at the post office by my grandmother’s. Which is a casual 1.5 hour trip from my own place of residence. I phoned up, made an appointment, and on the day in question spent the aforementioned hour and a half making my way there. I handed the form in.

A day later, it was rejected. Photo issues.

So I went back a second time, had new photos taken, got a new form (only the witness section was required to be completed again - as the new photos were going to be signed by a new person), and departed. This new form was filled out by a family friend and left at my grandmother’s for me to collect.

After being made aware that it was there, I called the post office to arrange another appointment time. No no, they said. Just come whenever. You’re just handing in some corrections. It’s not really an appointment.
Do you see where this is going? Do you?

A third trip.

I collect the form and photos from grandmother’s. I take them to the post office. I hand them in.

They’re rejected on the spot. Incorrectly dated.

(It’s around this point that I come to the conclusion the world is safe from any further plane-related terrorist attacks. Because frankly, if it takes this much effort to get passports anywhere else, planes will be obsolete by the time anyone anywhere gets fake documents. Or real ones.)

I take yet another form and return to my grandmother’s. She has company. Company that I cajole, beseech, guilt, plead and bribe into filling out my latest form, so as I can return it immediately. Company takes pity and does as requested.

This took all of about half an hour, and I’m back at the post office a fourth time. I go to the passport counter. It ‘closes’ at 11am. It’s 10.50am. I wait a minute or so, and am then approached by a woman who from now on shall be referred to as Oh My God I Think I Want To Stab You In The Head With An Icepick. Or Omgitiwtsyithwai**.


Omgitiwtsyithwai: Are you waiting for someone?
Myself: Not especially, I just need to hand this form in.
Omgitiwtsyithwai: Alright, well this counter is closed.
Myself: Mmm. I just need to hand this form in.
Omgitiwtsyithwai: Have you made an appointment?
Myself: Negative. I was here just before to hand a form in, but it was rejected. I have since then picked up a new form, had it completed, and now… I need to hand it in.
Omgitiwtsyithwai: Did you have an appointment?
Myself: … no.
Omgitiwtsyithwai: You can’t do that without an appointment.
Myself: Uh huh. Let me explain. I’ve already had the appointment. I have been through the process. There were some changes to make… On. This. Form. I was informed I could come by and hand it in at any time convenient. To myself.
Omgitiwtsyithwai: Who told you that? The woman with glasses?
Myself: Er, yeah. Sure. Her.
Omgitiwtsyithwai: Well we don’t allow this sort of thing without an appointment. One minute.

Omgitiwtsyithwai then heads into the back room. A few minutes later, she returns with Woman With Glasses.

WWG: You have the form?
Myself: Yeah. Here.
I hand it across.
WWG flicks through it.
WWG: Alright, we’re done here, thanks.

I leave.


And so concludes… for now… my passport hell. If I were more superstitious, I might think these were signs I shouldn’t depart. As it is, I simply think it’s a sign I should have paid more attention in Year 5 camp when we were building rafts. I’m sure it’d be much faster to paddle to England.



Peace, all.




* This was based both on the fact that I like to kill at least two birds with one stone when I travel all that way, so family visit + passport = acceptable results for a waste of 180 minutes of life, ‘round trip… and the fact that the post office a 3 minute walk away on the uni campus doesn’t do passport applications.

Mainly the uni issue.


** Which, coincidentally enough, is exactly what I type by chance whenever I think of her.

Dear readers,

Hello and welcome to another month!

Well, I have to say, some of you must have been keeping your fingers crossed an awful long time - and for that, I thank you.

So let’s get right to the tale of the day, yes?

Last night there was a dinner. This dinner involved family. And not being one to draw out my own suffering any longer than necessary, I chose this dinner as the time to announce my impending departure. The conversation started … like this:


Intrepid Traveller: So, I have some news.
There’s a collective turning of heads.
Intrepid Traveller: Er. Yes. Anyway… I’m going overseas soon.
Family Member: Oh. You’ve done that before.
Intrepid Traveller: To London.
Family Member: And that.
Intrepid Traveller: Indefinitely.
There’s a momentary pause.
Family Member: Well. You haven’t done that.


After establishing this was indeed not a hoax, we moved on to the important issues. Travel insurance. Health insurance. If I could get a new plane ticket that wouldn’t take me through America.

And whether or not my cousin could come and stay with me for free, in the future.



Peace, all.