Boy oh boy oh boy. Never fail to disappoint, Consular Section of the GHC.
Having picked lucky number 631 for the queue to pick up my passport, and seeing that they were serving luckier number 608, I realised I'd have a long wait. 15 minutes, 1 Rich Tea biscuit and a sip of water later, the man serving #608 donned his jacket and buggered off. Yep. For lunch? For a wizzle? For a ciggie? Your guess is as good as mine. But it took 15 minutes so maybe it was all of the above. Upon his return, he opted to converse with a colleague, pen poised over notebook, bundle of passports in hand. Oh what jokes they must have been sharing! They were having a jolly old time! Which prompted me to mutter (not quite under my breath), "would you get on with it!" Fortunately funnyman did not hear me (otherwise I'd probably still be waiting for my passport) but the lady next me did. "I know!" she sympathised, "they've lost my UK passport, I've been here 45 minutes and I don't mind waiting while they look for it but no one has actually said anything to me. All they've said is that they can't find it. I don't even know if someone is looking for it!" For a while we commented on the backwardsness of the place, the ancient interior and the general don'tcareishness attitude of the staff.
Anyway, long story short, they found her passport, and then they called me to issue my own (although not before funnyman took a second 15 minute break). Funnyman looked at my new passport, then looked at me and asked "is it for you?" "Does it not have my photo is it?" I replied in my head. "Yes, it is," I replied out loud. I then quietly signed for it, grabbed it and left...but not before sneakily checking to make sure they had spelled my name and printed my date of birth correctly. Because frankly, it wouldn't have surprised me if they hadn't.
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