Today, I have no identity. I have had to send my passport to the Home Office. Because I am soon(ish) to be married to a US citizen (boy, did that seem like a good idea at the time), I have to prove that I’m an EU citizen, resident in the UK. You’d think my years of paying tax, VAT and actually living here legally would be enough. But no, you have to get a card to show that you’re legal to live, work and pay taxes here without a card. It’s kind of a genius system.
You’ll have to forgive me; I’m very moany at the moment. Part of it is post-marathon blues, I’m sure. They do warn you that once such an enormous goal is removed, you feel a void. Well, if I did have such a void, it’s been filled with moaning. I’m not the only one doing it; it seems like everyone around me is moaning, too. Is it the weather? The tiniest bit colder and we all try to warm up using friction? Well, stop it. I was happier with my void. My gaping, open, howling void.
All I know is that no-one’s doing what they’ve said they will, with long, circuitous excuses for not doing so. I’ve fielded more of these today than I care to mention, so I won’t. Even the road-works outside my window have started again, as if to support the general moaning like a Greek chorus of concrete-ripping. Very soothing, you can imagine.
And now, to top it all off, I’ve had to surrender my little book with the horrible picture of myself to the Home Office, by special delivery. By lunchtime tomorrow, they’ll be laughing not only at the 2001 me, but the haggard, set-upon-by-moaning me from just today in Snap Printing. “Is that alright?” said the photo-snap man, showing me the haggard, grumpy face (of which I’d have to staple 2 to the Home Office forms). “It’s grand,” I sighed, and thrust a staple through my own bad-hair-day-immortalised forehead, before standing in the longest queue in the world at the post office.
I suppose I could see this as a good thing. Not only can I not prove who I am for the next 8 weeks or so, but nor can anyone else. Next time someone moans at me, or fails to respond (even in moan form), I could pretend to be French. Or I could just let the funky music do the talking, talking, now.
Yep. I think that’s what I’ll do. Oui.
Want to fill my void? Marathon fundraising continues at www.justgiving.com/taraflynn Nearly at the target!
