Seriously, how hard can it possibly be to organise a wee jaunt abroad with the kids. Very, it would appear.
We've booked a cheeky wee trip to Disneyland. Or Hell as I will probably refer to it after the trip. It's the one in Paris, no way will you get me to America! Can you imagine me on the flight?! Fuck that. We depart at end of February. We kinda booked it without thinking, spur of the moment. Christmas bonus madness I guess and it was a bloody good deal.
After we booked it I remembered that we are leaving Scotland and are flying into a place that requires us all to have passports. That's ok, 3 of us have them, just Imogen to get. So, I hunt out the 3 passports. No fucking idea where any of them are, organisation is not my strong point.
After emptying various cupboards, filing boxes and drawers, I find 2! Tom's (all fine) and Blaine's. Expired. Wtf?! We've only been abroad with him once, he was 4! Why did he get a passport at the age of 2?! Fucking clowns. So he now needs a passport.
I eventually find my passport, in my purse. No idea why it was there. But it's in date. Good.
First step: get application forms, a very simple process, available by the miserable wifey in local post office. Done.
Step 2: get passport photos. A trip to the photo booth proves unsuccessful as Imogen is too small. So it's a jaunt to the local key cutting place. We trail down, brush the kids hair and get their photos taken. NO SMILING. Smiling is bad. £12 later (£12?!??) and we have the photos. This is easy.
Step 3: fill out form, giving a huge amount of information, all in black ink and don't dare go out of the box! Done!
Step 4: Get someone professional to sign said photos. Oh god. Who do we know that is professional?! I have friends who are teachers, are they really professional? I mean, I've seen them pissed. Professional drinkers maybe! However, it appears we do know a proper professional who is happy to countersign the forms. No idea how he fitted all their names onto the tiny photo, but he did. I never thought about passport photos when I gave my kids 2 middle names....... Job done.
Step 5: get birth certificate for Imogen. Again I hunt the house. I find the abbreviated version, but that's no good. It must be the proper one.
Fuck sake.
I hunt everywhere. I find everyone else's, but not Imogen's. Eventually I admit defeat.
I need a replacement. As I only have 1 day off and we leave in 8 weeks, I need it urgently. So I trail the kids into town, on the bus, and head to the Council office where I can get a duplicate.
I arrive, very calm, and I'm informed there's approximately an hour wait. An hour. With 2 kids and nothing to do. That's ok, we'll be fine.
We take our number "692" and grab a seat. Imogen decides she'd rather be naked and starts taking off her shoes, trousers and socks. Erm..... No. Get dressed!! "681" is called - oh good! Hopefully not long to go. Aha. Ha. Ha.
Imogen and Blaine start doing races. Oh joy. They aren't bothering anyone, so I guess it's ok..... 20 mins later Imogen is tired. "682" is called. Then all hell breaks out. Tantrum city. Imogen has a total meltdown. The first 2 mins are bearable. Then the high-pitched squealing starts. I get her in the buggy and move away from all the folk - they are pissed off, rightly so, who wants to hear a screaming bairn in their lug.
40 mins later. Yes, 40. She falls asleep. She's scratched me, kicked my glasses off, screamed, squealed and generally been a pain in the arse. Folk are annoyed. I'm mortified. Even the junkies look pissed off.
Finally, after 1 hour and 15 mins of waiting we are called! A lovely wifey deals with my request and 5 mins later,and £15 poorer, I have the birth certificate. Yippee!
Off to the post office to get the forms checked and sent away. I get called to "cashier number 7 please" off we pop - I inform the manny what I require and he tells me I need to go to "cashier number 1, that's the passport desk, the guy will be with you soon" off I pop to cashier number 1. Then, I fucking kid you not, the manny arrives. It's the same manny that was "cashier number 7" but he appears to have a different jumper on?! Seriously. I near fall on the floor in some manic meltdown, but I compose myself and remain calm.
He checks my forms and takes all relevant documents. Turns out he knows the professional who counter-signed the forms. Then he robs me of a fucking ridiculous amount of cash and sends me on my way.
Passports done.
Now all they have to do is arrive on time.......
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