Lost passport

Remember passports?

In my early twenties I carried mine around with me until it fell out of my pocket in Liverpool. “Just in case I fancy jumping on the Eurostar,” I said. I was even more gauche back then. But Eurostar was doing great last minute deals for under 25s and cheap travel is too tempting. I ended up in Paris on a shoestring and with no bag a fair few times back then. No chance of that now.

Recently, of course, passports were a touch point in the idiocy wars. “We want blue passports and to be breastfed, like it was in the old days,” they cried as they set fire to their own arms and punched themselves in the face.

I kept the damn passport in a safe place in the flat so as not to lose it. I kept it on my altar, where I keep all the precious things. Problem is, for the advert that I didn’t get, they made me and all 685 other candidates fill in a bunch of forms including passport details just to make things a bit easier for the people doing the casting. I picked it up, but I was thinking about building the studio in my spare room and what to wear etc. I wasn’t thinking about decent passport management. I took the number and then …

I lost it.

It’s in the flat. Mislaid not lost. This is no comfort.

This might be the catalyst I need for a proper committed tidy-up. I’ve been procrastinating, and things have stacked up. I don’t want the cold water injection of my agent phoning up saying “great news, you’re flying to Morocco on Tuesday” when I still can’t put my hand on the damn thing. I’m going to have to find it. But this flat…

In front of me as I write, an incense burner sits precariously on a light box. Inside the light box is a plastic owl, some carmex, two fabric reindeers, some early Beatrix Potter books, a WW2 officers tack set with buckle, an expensive watch, a cheap belt, a sewing kit, two rulers, pliers, napkins, post-its, pencils, an oriental table runner, a chess set, a Commando magazine, a fan and a tigers claw on a gold plated chain. There’s more too. Much more. The passport might have found its way into there. Or into one of many many other similar storage facilities located in every spare inch of space. My bed, my bathroom, the kitchen and a corner of the living room are the only sacred spaces and even then it’s touch and go. The rest of the flat is filled with piles of stuff balanced on other piles of stuff. In one of them, or in a pocket, or under a bed, or ANYWHERE is the passport that I absently put down after filling in form number AJ76391b for a job I won’t do. Grrrrr.

Tonight I’m just gonna write about it. Tomorrow and Sunday I’ll pluck up the courage to go in with both feet, delve deep and see if I come out clutching the fucking thing. I could always reorder it I guess. It expires in 11/11/21, so it’s due a change over anyway. And hey, the new one might be the blue one. I can hold it and gnash my teeth about being unable to go touring in the EU anymore…

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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