I could almost taste the umbrella laden, heavy on the pour, fruity cocktail.
The sun was warm on my face, my bathers were shapely around my newly skinnied up bod (daydream sequence alert!!) and the children were happily making Dory masks in Kids Club.
The fantasy was tantalisingly close.
Just one, small hiccup…
The kids required passports.
Sounds simple, right?
WRONG! So very WRONG!
Last time I renewed mine I was walked over the coals for having a paper clip indentation on my passport photo. My whines were met with a steely stare and a ‘next in line, please’ brush off.
I was mildly scared. This time I had to add the two little wreckers to the mix.
We enter the Post Office.
Normally, if I am alone, I love looking at all the bits and bobs for sale as I droop wearily in the queue. I recently became the proud owner of a ‘new and improved’ Vegetti spiral vegetable cutter; still in it’s packaging. But I WILL use it.
However, with kids, this place is hell.
Everything that glitters, flashes or has chocolate in it, is conveniently placed approximately 90cm off the ground. This sparkling, pixar minefield of ‘I WANTS’, is tougher than the confectionary aisle at the supermarket. Here, I am desperately confined to the queue, watching them run around like blue arsed flies, whilst I am committed to holding my spot in the line. In that low, (mildly terrified), ‘I have this all under control’ voice, I quietly, yet calmly (just like the books say) insist that they come and stand beside me. All bored eyes in the queue watch with mild amusement, fast turning to impatience, as my lack of control over these ‘wild’ kids sees The Wiggles guitar pump out “Big Red Car” on repeat. In my flustered, cold prickle sweat of embarrassment, I leave the queue in my quest for the illusive OFF button. Still within its display gift box, I can’t find it. I shuffle back to the line, head low, only lifting my eyes momentarily to plead my way back into my spot. At least the ‘music’ goes some way to drowning out their squeals.
But we might just be OK.
We’re next.
I quickly lick and swipe the chocolate biscuit crumbs away from their mouths and reclip some wild hair.
I breathlessly vice grip their hands and wait for our moment.
Bugger. We got the new guy who has had to ask for assistance on every transaction before me.
I apologetically smile half heartedly as I request passport photos for the two who are now dragging me in opposite directions. I attempt to stand firm, and I repeat my request. I believe I may possibly hear a collective groan from the queue.
New guy asks for help.
We are eventually guided to the white screen and incredibly my angels strike their best blue steel right down that lens.
All done?
Really?
Not quite.
Now we wait.
Just waiting for them to print.
The kids wrench their hands from mine and tear in opposite directions.
He ‘ummmms’ at the screen.
He ‘aaahhhhs’ at it.
He asks for help.
We wait.
“No. The whole system’s down,” the supervisor snaps.
“Not our fault. It’s a national thing,” she adds when she spots my blood drained face.
I bite my lip and the tears prickle. It’s not actually their fault after all.
But wait; surely the photos are saved? I can come back tomorrow and collect them?
No. It seems they’re not.
25 terrifying minutes.
I turn to leave with nothing.
I push those bitchin’ tears are far back as I can, grab my son from the TV box he has just scaled to reach a Paw Patrol sticker book and march the two kids from that pocket of hell.
It has started to rain.
#Postscript :
I have since been called back by the passport office twice for minor ‘issues’ with my applications. Inwardly, I am hugely impressed by our country that has such stringent rules and values our safety. Outwardly, GGRROOAANNNN!!!! Two more PO visits with tackers in tow. On the upside, I now mildly worship new guy behind the counter. He keeps copping me and yesterday as my son rolled on the floor demanding some Dory Blind Bag (whatever the hell that is?), he announced to my son it was not for sale. The lip dropped, but that was that.
Bring on that cocktail!!
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