Problem Passport
27/12/05 17:00
I leave in 12 hours... no passport. Those smiling scousers promised a ‘Guaranteed week delivery’, that was shattered 4 days ago. I hadn’t bothered to chase them up because it was obvious it would turn up at the last minute, a mere day before I left. That was obvious because it was me and everything falls into place during the dying, flickering embers of hope. There was no need to worry, until now that is, five o'clock, the close of the business day. When all the delivery drivers were racing home in their minds, stuck stationary in rush-hour traffic.
Phone calls to the agency revealed that I would now receive my passport for free because of their promise breaking ways! I just needed to hang on whilst they put me through to the courier to get the low down.
Phone call to the courier reveals they are claiming they delivered it on the 20th of December. The courier has even written a description of the house, which surely proves beyond all reasonable doubt that it was delivered.
“Who signed for it?” I ask
‘You don’t need to sign for it. You only need to sign in high risk, hot areas’
“That seems a bit stupid doesn’t it? All this security and then your man can just dump it through a letter box, or a hedge, and drive away claiming delivery?”
‘You only need to sign for it in hot areas.’
Because criminals only operate in Liverpool, Manchester and 3.75 miles outside city limits.
“Well, I don’t have it. Who is liable for this?”
‘You are. It’s your fault, you received the passport and then misplaced it.’
“So, I have to pay for another passport, even though I didn’t receive the original”
‘Yes´
So, this alleged booklet of the upmost importance and subject to the most stringent security checks in case forgeries are made or copies get into the wrong hands. This document where a professional has to verify knowing you for at least 2 years, sign the back of your photos as well as giving their passport number. This document where everything has to be so picture perfect that I had to retake my first set of photos because I was smiling -that has recently been banned- and my second set of photos because my face wasn't fully in the oval and I was "slightly looking down." This document that you paid £90 to have made in an emergency and rushed to you. This document that you’d probably get tried for treason and shot if you were the one who lost it, isn’t deemed worthy enough to need signing for if you live in the apparent crime free, rural countryside.
I end the phone call amidst vague promises that someone might be in tomorrow who might might do me another passport if I can pay and if I can have the correct form faxed over in time. I quickly realise these 'mights' hinge heavily upon me reversing my flabbergasted fury and verbally licking their arse for a few minutes, getting in their good books so as to guarantee success and them granting me the favour.
I decline the invitation.
Nicola doesn’t know where my passport is and nobody at the works at the top where the post usually gets delivered claims to know where the passport is. I smell a rat because I know Dickchard works there. Dickchard is Nicola’s brother and they have recently fallen out over private family matters. He usually lets himself into the house during the day with the key that Nicola gave him in order to tend to the dogs,drop off shopping/post and so on.
Nicola has changed the locks, only me and her have the new key. I have been warned that Dickchard may be upto no good and instructed to disallow his entry into the property.
I awake one day to the sounds of the 3 dogs downstairs barking. I ignore it and attempt sleep. Ten minutes pass and they won’t settle. I figure they want to go outside, even though they never usually bark and would sooner piss all over my stuff than go to the effort of actually alerting someone to their needs . I open the door and Dickchard is there. He is confused about the key and even though he has spent 10 minutes trying it on the outside lock without success, he now begins poking and scraping it in the inside lock.
'The key doesn’t work' he eventually concludes.
He looks at me like we’re on the same team. He looks at me like if I don’t know the answer then we are going to have sit down together like a pair of downright men, change into dirty overalls with our vests showing, listen to our builders' radio covered in paint, and solve this DIY conundrum together.
"No. The locks have been changed" I say it in a neutral way, but maintaining direct eye contact.
'Wha..t?'
"The locks have been changed. I’ve been told not to let you inside"
A look of indignant outrage and defiance occupies his face and he tries to step past me. I take a small side step, blocking his path and resulting in him taking a small step back. This small backward step is a gigantic indicator and it’s at this point that I know I have won. Dickchard isn’t going to try and force his way into the house and there will be no need for the violence I was half anticipating. He instantly revealed that he is a man of words, not action, and even at the peak of his anger at this frustrating situation, he cannot even barge past someone half his size. Someone who to him, is an illegal alien occupying his old family home and is now blocking his way, happily telling him to his face that he can’t enter. That he can’t enter the house that he will probably inherit half of when the owner passes away.
A person is most angry and dangerous at the very beginning of a situation. Like when someone cuts you up badly whilst driving. Initially you are incensed and chase after them, beeping and finger sign giving, a red mist now covering your eyes, clouding and distorting your previous pacifistic ways. This time, this time, you're finally gonna snap and this guy's gonna get a lesson teaching seven shades of shit kicked out of him. All that built up aggression from every beating you should have ever given to every bully, every guy who leered at your girlfriend, every cocky fuck who stood in your way is now going to be painfully pounded into this guy's sorry skull. This is the last time anyone's gonna take the piss out of you.
By the time they've pulled up at the side of the road, giving you the 'come on, 'ave a go if you're think you're hard enough' sign and swinging their hammer at you, the anger has subsided and you sheepishly drive away. Next time, next time, you say.
No, Dickchard isn´t going to do anything more except exchange a few words, possibly threats, and then walk away a beaten man. I turn most of mind to my bed and the sleep I am being deprived of. Stopping him from entering the house isn't the priority anymore, that has been solved, letting him get his rant out of the way ASAP so I can sleep is now top priority. I decide saying the fewest words as possible so as not to provoke him into further speech is the best idea.
'This is my house' he states
Silence
'How long are you staying for?' he asks
"A week" I say
“You’re not” he utters in quite a hushed, threatening way to his credit.
‘Ok’ I gleefully reply
“If you don’t let me in then I’ll kick the door down or come in through the window”
‘Ok’ I gleefully reply
The door is an extremely thick cottage door made out of some expensive wood which I admit I cannot name. However, I can quite confidently state that no man on earth could kick it down. I find such stereotypical threats very hard to believe, normally being made by people who have never had to make a threat before and have no capacity to carry out their threats. I liken it a lot to when 2 of my neighbours threatened to “Break my legs” last year. I mean, come on, have you ever heard anyone outside of 'Home Alone' or 'Muder she wrote' use such a threat? Ever heard anyone slightly scary or threatening say that in real life or on screen? Exactly no. In Manchester they would say:
“You're gonna get FUCKED up, proper like...yeah? You get me? Yeah?You’re gonna get fucking GATTED mate.You get me, yeah, yeah?”
Ok, not the most intelligent threat, but does its job.
Dickchard pauses like he is expecting me to give a stereotypical reply
"Just you try"
"Not on your Nelly, buster"
He walks away, I lock the door, I go to sleep.
Could Dickchard be behind the missing passport? My paranoid side says yes. Logically though, a man who couldn't barge past an illegal alien in his own home probably doesn't want to fuck with a document that has a royal symbol on that he probably holds in high regard.
Nicola returns home from work and checks her Nanna’s house -She lives in the other half of the cottage- because Stephen -Nicola’s brother-in-law- says it might have fallen behind some furniture. It hasn’t. A bout of rigorous questioning reveals that Nanna knows nothing of the passport. A dangling life-line is revealed as Nicola admits that in the past, Nanna, in her elderly forgetful ways, has opened Nicola’s post, sometimes even throwing it away. Afterwards, Nanna would deny everything.
18:00
Nicola locates the passport. It had been opened and left lying around in the house. My flight takes off in 12 hours and 45minutes.
I leave in 12 hours... no passport. Those smiling scousers promised a ‘Guaranteed week delivery’, that was shattered 4 days ago. I hadn’t bothered to chase them up because it was obvious it would turn up at the last minute, a mere day before I left. That was obvious because it was me and everything falls into place during the dying, flickering embers of hope. There was no need to worry, until now that is, five o'clock, the close of the business day. When all the delivery drivers were racing home in their minds, stuck stationary in rush-hour traffic.
Phone calls to the agency revealed that I would now receive my passport for free because of their promise breaking ways! I just needed to hang on whilst they put me through to the courier to get the low down.
Phone call to the courier reveals they are claiming they delivered it on the 20th of December. The courier has even written a description of the house, which surely proves beyond all reasonable doubt that it was delivered.
“Who signed for it?” I ask
‘You don’t need to sign for it. You only need to sign in high risk, hot areas’
“That seems a bit stupid doesn’t it? All this security and then your man can just dump it through a letter box, or a hedge, and drive away claiming delivery?”
‘You only need to sign for it in hot areas.’
Because criminals only operate in Liverpool, Manchester and 3.75 miles outside city limits.
“Well, I don’t have it. Who is liable for this?”
‘You are. It’s your fault, you received the passport and then misplaced it.’
“So, I have to pay for another passport, even though I didn’t receive the original”
‘Yes´
So, this alleged booklet of the upmost importance and subject to the most stringent security checks in case forgeries are made or copies get into the wrong hands. This document where a professional has to verify knowing you for at least 2 years, sign the back of your photos as well as giving their passport number. This document where everything has to be so picture perfect that I had to retake my first set of photos because I was smiling -that has recently been banned- and my second set of photos because my face wasn't fully in the oval and I was "slightly looking down." This document that you paid £90 to have made in an emergency and rushed to you. This document that you’d probably get tried for treason and shot if you were the one who lost it, isn’t deemed worthy enough to need signing for if you live in the apparent crime free, rural countryside.
I end the phone call amidst vague promises that someone might be in tomorrow who might might do me another passport if I can pay and if I can have the correct form faxed over in time. I quickly realise these 'mights' hinge heavily upon me reversing my flabbergasted fury and verbally licking their arse for a few minutes, getting in their good books so as to guarantee success and them granting me the favour.
I decline the invitation.
Nicola doesn’t know where my passport is and nobody at the works at the top where the post usually gets delivered claims to know where the passport is. I smell a rat because I know Dickchard works there. Dickchard is Nicola’s brother and they have recently fallen out over private family matters. He usually lets himself into the house during the day with the key that Nicola gave him in order to tend to the dogs,drop off shopping/post and so on.
Nicola has changed the locks, only me and her have the new key. I have been warned that Dickchard may be upto no good and instructed to disallow his entry into the property.
I awake one day to the sounds of the 3 dogs downstairs barking. I ignore it and attempt sleep. Ten minutes pass and they won’t settle. I figure they want to go outside, even though they never usually bark and would sooner piss all over my stuff than go to the effort of actually alerting someone to their needs . I open the door and Dickchard is there. He is confused about the key and even though he has spent 10 minutes trying it on the outside lock without success, he now begins poking and scraping it in the inside lock.
'The key doesn’t work' he eventually concludes.
He looks at me like we’re on the same team. He looks at me like if I don’t know the answer then we are going to have sit down together like a pair of downright men, change into dirty overalls with our vests showing, listen to our builders' radio covered in paint, and solve this DIY conundrum together.
"No. The locks have been changed" I say it in a neutral way, but maintaining direct eye contact.
'Wha..t?'
"The locks have been changed. I’ve been told not to let you inside"
A look of indignant outrage and defiance occupies his face and he tries to step past me. I take a small side step, blocking his path and resulting in him taking a small step back. This small backward step is a gigantic indicator and it’s at this point that I know I have won. Dickchard isn’t going to try and force his way into the house and there will be no need for the violence I was half anticipating. He instantly revealed that he is a man of words, not action, and even at the peak of his anger at this frustrating situation, he cannot even barge past someone half his size. Someone who to him, is an illegal alien occupying his old family home and is now blocking his way, happily telling him to his face that he can’t enter. That he can’t enter the house that he will probably inherit half of when the owner passes away.
A person is most angry and dangerous at the very beginning of a situation. Like when someone cuts you up badly whilst driving. Initially you are incensed and chase after them, beeping and finger sign giving, a red mist now covering your eyes, clouding and distorting your previous pacifistic ways. This time, this time, you're finally gonna snap and this guy's gonna get a lesson teaching seven shades of shit kicked out of him. All that built up aggression from every beating you should have ever given to every bully, every guy who leered at your girlfriend, every cocky fuck who stood in your way is now going to be painfully pounded into this guy's sorry skull. This is the last time anyone's gonna take the piss out of you.
By the time they've pulled up at the side of the road, giving you the 'come on, 'ave a go if you're think you're hard enough' sign and swinging their hammer at you, the anger has subsided and you sheepishly drive away. Next time, next time, you say.
No, Dickchard isn´t going to do anything more except exchange a few words, possibly threats, and then walk away a beaten man. I turn most of mind to my bed and the sleep I am being deprived of. Stopping him from entering the house isn't the priority anymore, that has been solved, letting him get his rant out of the way ASAP so I can sleep is now top priority. I decide saying the fewest words as possible so as not to provoke him into further speech is the best idea.
'This is my house' he states
Silence
'How long are you staying for?' he asks
"A week" I say
“You’re not” he utters in quite a hushed, threatening way to his credit.
‘Ok’ I gleefully reply
“If you don’t let me in then I’ll kick the door down or come in through the window”
‘Ok’ I gleefully reply
The door is an extremely thick cottage door made out of some expensive wood which I admit I cannot name. However, I can quite confidently state that no man on earth could kick it down. I find such stereotypical threats very hard to believe, normally being made by people who have never had to make a threat before and have no capacity to carry out their threats. I liken it a lot to when 2 of my neighbours threatened to “Break my legs” last year. I mean, come on, have you ever heard anyone outside of 'Home Alone' or 'Muder she wrote' use such a threat? Ever heard anyone slightly scary or threatening say that in real life or on screen? Exactly no. In Manchester they would say:
“You're gonna get FUCKED up, proper like...yeah? You get me? Yeah?You’re gonna get fucking GATTED mate.You get me, yeah, yeah?”
Ok, not the most intelligent threat, but does its job.
Dickchard pauses like he is expecting me to give a stereotypical reply
"Just you try"
"Not on your Nelly, buster"
He walks away, I lock the door, I go to sleep.
Could Dickchard be behind the missing passport? My paranoid side says yes. Logically though, a man who couldn't barge past an illegal alien in his own home probably doesn't want to fuck with a document that has a royal symbol on that he probably holds in high regard.
Nicola returns home from work and checks her Nanna’s house -She lives in the other half of the cottage- because Stephen -Nicola’s brother-in-law- says it might have fallen behind some furniture. It hasn’t. A bout of rigorous questioning reveals that Nanna knows nothing of the passport. A dangling life-line is revealed as Nicola admits that in the past, Nanna, in her elderly forgetful ways, has opened Nicola’s post, sometimes even throwing it away. Afterwards, Nanna would deny everything.
18:00
Nicola locates the passport. It had been opened and left lying around in the house. My flight takes off in 12 hours and 45minutes.
posted by Swedophilia at 17:37
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