How to look like a felon.

At the end of this month, me and my gang are off to Canadia. Ever since our Prime Minister called it Canadia in a press conference, I cannot stop calling it the same name.


And now, neither can you.

Anyway, just before Christmas I realised that my passport had expired so in a move of sheer brilliance, I got my passport photos done when I was out and about running errands. I had actual makeup on, and sort sort of ensemble resembling an actual outfit, and despite the fact that I couldn’t smile in the photo, I actually didn’t hate the picture. Which is a complete win as it has to see me through until I am 51.

And then I put those photos in a drawer somewhere and then Christmas happened and all of the holidays etc, so I completely forgot about the whole thing. Until Mr. Woog asked me for my passport and I remembered that I hadn’t renewed it yet. CUE ALL THE IMPENDING DRAMA.

Now if there is one thing in the world that I hate with all my being, it is renewing passports. Horatio also needed a new one, but I hand balled that over to the old ball and chain, insisting that my mental wellbeing was not worth it. This is because I am scarred from trying to get his passport when he was 6 months old. I had to go back nine times.

Nine times.

I am sorry that I am babbling in this post. Can you feel my pain yet?

So I did the online form and printed it out. I made every visitor to the house read through it and make sure it was ok. I fronted up to my appointment at the Post Office and was greeted by a kindly older gentleman, who I quickly confessed to that I was very fragile about getting this right and if there were any mistakes on the form, could he break it to me gently. And hug me.

And wouldn’t you know it? The form was perfect! I almost wept with relief. I handed over my photos, and it was a this point that things went askew.

The photo was unacceptable. “To dark!” he said. But not to worry.

“I will do your photo for you now.”

Now, I am not a particularly vain person. But dear reader, it has to be said that I hadn’t presented myself in the best possible way that morning. I hadn’t yet showered as I had been writing away up until the point of the interview. I had complete morning face on. My hair was in an unspeakable state. I told the post office man that I was not camera ready.

“Have you got any makeup in your bag?” He asked. When told no, he then went on to ask me to take my hair out of it’s ponytail.

“That’s better…” said my new stylist. “Now, do you have a brush?” Which of course I┬ádidn’t. I was also wearing black which completely washes me out. There was not time to fuck around though. I had to get the photo done. So I will leave you with this thought.

Would you let this woman into Canadia?


what the actual fuck?

Do you have a horrible passport photo? Divers licence? Please feel free to share!