Sign of the Times

The Gods are laughing down at me. I have been far too blessed for far too long, and it's my turn for atonement. My weekend can only be described as a Series of Unfortunate Events. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain fell in diagonal streaks forming whirlpools in the dirty streets, lit only by the oily orange glow of the low energy watt lightbulbs. She had left the office quickly - her London-bound flight was leaving in little over two hours and she had a long drive ahead. Tucking her scarf around her cold neck, she tottered down the steep streets, avoiding drunkards as they passed, leering and jabbing their fingers at inexistant mockers. Arriving at her car, she paid for her ticket and turned the radio on, windscreen wipers attempting to keep up with the pace of the rain. Chaotic driving through the mean streets of Glasgow ensued, biting her lip each time there was a near miss, she was relieved to arrive at Prestwick in good time, and patted her handbag instinctively to check everything was there.

Her heart stopped.

"My passport!" she gasped and patted again. Irregular heart beats mimicked the garage beat on the radio. She turned it off in a panic.

She drove on into the carpark, rain crashing down angrily, and turned the car engine off. Where on earth was her passport?! Had she managed to lose it between leaving the office and getting to the airport? Surely only a really sad unlucky person would manage that! Impossible!

With her heart in her feet, after a long search in the car, she realised it wasn't there. She had lost her passport. Her only option was to go into the airport and see if she could fly on a driving licence. She stepped out of the car, the wind whipping her hair into a wild matted frenzy, rain soaking her to the skin, her feet immediately soaked and numb.

Fast forward: Ryanair were strangely helpful and she arrived at Stanstead, having called Strathclyde police and logged the lost passport (and house keys).

Lost and lonely on the coach to Victoria, she was woken from her drowsy sleep from a vibration in her pocket. "I'm sure I didn't pack that..." she thought as she felt her pocket and then pulled out her mobile.

"It's me", said me

"Hello me" she replied.

"I've just had a call from Strathclyde police and they have your passport"

"HURRAH" she said in jubilation, waking all other sleepers on the coach with her joy.

Fast forward: She had a strange weekend in Dulwich meeting all other staff members on her Central America expediction, being taken through an uncomfortable number of 'awareness' and 'icebreaker' games followed by introspective reviews and psychoanalysis. She wondered not for the first time what on earth she was about to do - leave her lovely house in scotland with her lovely boyfriend, dog and lifestyle, to go and live in the jungle as a youth worker. She spent some time panicking in the loos wondering whether a sudden pregnancy, broken back, psychotic episode etc etc would be realistic ways of informing Raleigh that she was no longer able to participate. However, being tough and resilient ('quiet and resourceful' being actual feedback given after the weekend, ha!) she stuck at it, and it was with relief but insight that she returned, tired and emotional, to Stanstead for her return flight to her beloved Scotland.

"Madam, any liquids in your bag?"

"No" she lied sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes.

"Madam, would you mind if her checked your bag?"

"For fuck's sake" she thought to herself "if you take my new lip gloss I'll be sooooo angry"

"Madam, would you care to explain why your bag contains explosive materials?"

"erm, does it?"

"We are going to have to dismantle it and swipe it again"

"erm, ok"

"Madam, your bag and contents have set off the red-alert of our swipe machine, can you explain why?"

"Erm, I've just been at a Scout camp all weekend, doing overseas development work training...I haven't been in touch with any explosives..what are you going to do?"

"Madam, I'm afraid if it goes off again, we will have to confiscate your bag and blow it up"

The blood drained from her face. She smiled nervously and surrepticiously removed her wallet, mobile phone and car keys from the bag and hid them in her pocket with her new lip gloss. She was damned if they got blown up too.

Fast forward - having proved unequivicaly that there was nothing explosive about her bag, beyond the trapped fart smells in her sleeping bag, she was allowed to continue into departures and flew with relief back to her beloved Scotland where she landed in a force 10 storm, and thought not for the first or last time, that it was time to recite the Lords Prayer.

On arrival back in Scotland, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, applied some of her new lip gloss and called Strathclyde Police.

"Hi. I understand some kind soul has returned my passport to you"

"That's correct Madam."

"Lovely. I'm coming into town tomorrow - do I need a reference number to collect it"

"Well, it's not as simple as that madam"

Her heart sank. A tear prickled her nose.

"What do you mean?" She concentrated on keeping her voice low, calm and reasonable.

"Due to a nameless and totally pointless European Directive which serves no purpose other than to make your life as difficult as possible, which we as the Police are more than happy to uphold, I am unable to return your passport to you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your passport has been sent to England to be destroyed"

"you are JOKING" she screeched. "THAT WAS A NEW PASSPORT YOU HORRIBLE MAN"

"Madam, there is no need to be unreasonable, I am just following the law. You are however able to come and collect your house keys"

"So there's no European Directive which says they need to be detroyed too? How frightfully remiss of you"

Fast forward: she sits at her computer angrily typing her blog, wondering why on earth it has come to this. In one fell swoop she has discovered that nothing is sacred in this earth. A lost passport does not belong to anyone other than HRH and if HRH wants that passport to be blown up and destroyed forever, then that's what HRH and her sodding European Directives can do. I am stunned at the red tape in this country - even though there was less than 10 minutes between the time of loss and the time of it being handed in, apparently my passport could have been expertly copied and my identity stolen.

I am going to have to go and talk to the kind people of the post office and apply again. The cost of passports is now £70. I have basically had a complete shocker.

The only upside? Well, I didn't like the photo anyhow.