Passport to nowhere

I hate any kind of bureaucracy as it induces in me Kafkaesque delusion. Last year I had to fill out a tax return for the first time and received many hours of therapy from various staff members at the inland revenue who would gently reassure me that it was 'unlikely I would go to prison for fraud.'  So it was with a heavy heart that I booked an appointment to get a new passport.

As the fear of form filling set in so did the horror of the passport photo. A passport photo, like a dog, is not just for Christmas; it travels with you, for ten years, and if you get kidnapped in a foreign country it ends up on the news. This panicked me. I must remember to supply my friends with a series of approved photographs that they can distribute to news agencies in that event. 

Vanity took me to Snappy Snaps to have a real person take my picture rather than a machine with a voice. I don't think the women in the shop understood the gravity of the situation and after several attempts I settled for an average representation of my features. In the photo I have the complexion of cheddar and one eyebrow raised in a quizzical fashion, I hope this is not seen as an affront to immigration officials at airports, I am not questioning their authority nor the splendour of their country. 

When I arrived at the passport office my slightly disappointing photo suddenly didn't seem so bad as I looked at the girl in front of me in the queue . She was about 18, with the longest false eyelashes I have ever seen and bright blue hair; something I fear she will come to regret when she is 25 and a lawyer travelling to Washington DC for her 'big break'.

At the passport office,they believe themselves to be an airport-perhaps because of the association of travel. As a result your belongings are x-rayed and you are frisked, but the staff are very nice and as they frisk you ask if you are having a nice day and tell you that you look a bit tired and that its lucky you are going on a holiday soon. 

I was issued with a ticket with a number on it, like at a deli counter. I sat down and waited for my number to be called. 1969. This was harder than it sounds as the numbers are called out without any logical order. 

'1987'

'2045'

'30040'

'1'

They might as well be shouting out;

'cow'

'sandwich'

'orange juice'

'girl guides'

I was there for about 20 minutes when the robot voice of god boomed

'1961'

Nobody moved. There was a pause of a few minutes 

'1961'

Still no takers. 'What an idiot!' I thought.  '...why would you take a ticket and leave without telling anyone?' I tutted and muttered something about people being inconsiderate. '1961' was called a few more times before they gave up.

A few minutes later:

'1969'

I stood up and showed a man with a walkie-talkie my ticket so he could tell me which counter to go to. He looked at me. He looked at my ticket.

'You've missed it!' He said.

'What? No I haven't!' I said indignantly as I snatched the ticket back. There in black emboldened numbers was written;

'1961'

I shouldn't hate bureaucracy, its not bureaucracy's fault, its mine.