So, Tony’s passport expired in January. I swivelled over whether to renew it or not, because after all, he’s 81, and if he doesn’t last for another 10 years it’s money wasted, isn’t it? But being a man, he stamped his foot and started to cry when I said he wouldn’t be able to go back to England – or anywhere else – ever again, so I relented and sent off the application form. And that’s where the trouble started.
For once, it’s my fault. You may want to circle the date on the calendar, because it doesn’t happen very often that I mess up, but I did this time. I should have taken my own advice – like I tell people on the blogs – and checked up before sending off any application or doing anything legal or important, but I had the idea in my head that the passport had to be sent to our English address. The fact is, it could be sent to either one, but I didn’t realise. Like I said – should have checked.
The Passport Office received the application on 31 January, and the first attempt at delivery was made on 12 February. Impressive, eh? Well, not quite. Now this bit is the fault of the site manager where our static caravan is situated. He was inconsiderate enough to almost sever his finger with a circular saw, at the very time the receptionist was on holiday, so the office was closed. The resourceful delivery guys weren’t deterred though – they attempted to deliver the passport – and failed, because we were here, not there. The passport had to be signed for, but the only one available to do that was the site manager’s cat, as the site was closed for the winter break. Apparently a cat is not one of the personages authorised to sign for passports, so back it went.
Several more attempts to deliver failed, and I was contacted to say they couldn’t deliver it. I asked them to leave it at the site office, as the receptionist and manager were now back, and would be happy to sign for it. However, because I hadn’t put ‘Please leave at site office, the manager and receptionist have our permission to sign for the passport’ on the form, the easy solution was not available to us. If only the cat had pretended to be the manager and signed for the bloody thing in the first place, I wouldn’t be writing this now.
So the passport went back from whence it came, to the Peterborough Office, and I spent fruitless hours on the phone, trying to rearrange delivery for while I was in England for my grandson’s christening. I was staying with a friend, as it wasn’t worth opening up the caravan for a few days. With a good idea of what the answer would be, I asked if it could be sent to that address. To my astonishment, it could, as long as my husband gave his permission. He did, willingly, and I proceeded to give my friend’s address. It wasn’t as easy as that though – it never is with civil servants. I should know – I’m married to a retired one.
Apparently, Peterborough had to call me back for the address to make sure Tony wasn’t an Eastern European human trafficker trying to hijack the passports or respectable citizens in order to import roundabout girls for the delectation and delight of sundry men. Or at least, that’s the impression I got, although who would want to import a bald, bespectacled 81 year old with a beer belly and a dodgy knee is beyond me. What’s that you say? They’d remove Tony’s photo and replace it with somebody else’s? Bloody hell – what will they think of next?
Whenever you’re dealing with the Passport Office, they say ‘Allow 3 working days for a response.’ By the time I’d twice allowed three working days, each time contacting them again and being told the same thing – Peterborough will call you for the address to send the passport to – I was in England. And that was when Tony got the phone call to say the passport was on its way. Bless him – he was so happy – until I told him that it wouldn’t arrive for me to bring it back, as they still didn’t have my friend’s address.
Three weeks later, we still don’t have a passport for Tony, so I can’t yet book Eurotunnel for our trip back to England in late May. After spending an hour on the phone yesterday, it looks like we may be in business soon. They’re going to send the passport to us here in Spain. I just have to wait 3 working days for them to get back to me on that one …
I may be unfortunate in my dealings with the Passport Office, but I am certainly fortunate in my friends, because Dave Bull, who hosts Real Radio International’s breakfast show every weekday morning, has come up with the perfect solution. He’s prepared to loan us his own passport to get Tony to England. What a selfless action on his part. I felt a bit ungratefull pointing out that Dave was almost a foot taller than Tony, as well as being a store or two lighter, with no sign of a beer gut. Oh, and he has hair. The last time Tony needed to use a comb or shampoo was way before I met him 25 years ago. He was very fond of a shampoo called Wash and Go, and it does exactly what it says on the tin, boys and girls – he washed his hair, and it went, never to return!
Dave is a ‘Can Do’ sort of guy, and he came up with the perfect solution. I’m off to Almoradi Market to buy a wig and a pair of platform shoes, size 8 UK, Spanish size 42. Not sure what to do about the beer gut though. I wonder if the hire shop at San Luis has a bacon slicer? Worth a go!
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