I got my passport (and live tweeted through the torture!)

You’ve all read my emotional scarring episode when I wanted to collect my passport last week.  (Just a note, I know you didn’t all read it, I checked my stats.  Remember, Big Brother is watching.  All the time.) I have since faced my demons again and returned to the hall of terror twice.  I finally got my passport on the third try.  But it didn’t come cheap.  I’m still receiving hypnotherapy and electric shock treatment to try and forget the torture I had to endure.

Unfortunately I live tweeted my whole experience.  Now I will be able to relive those disturbing moments forever.  Or at least until the Internet is full or crashes, whichever comes first.  I decided to share my tweets with those of you who haven’t decided to follow me on Twitter.  Am I not the nicest guy?

Arrived and been in a queue for fifteen minutes. Nothing is happening… The twitch in my left eye is back.         4:00 PM – 14 Sep 2015

Good news! Four people helped in 20 minutes. Bad news… there is still eighteen people in front of me.      4:05 PM – 14 Sep 2015

Sitting in this queue makes me realize how serial killers are made.      4:11 PM – 14 Sep 2015

As a final note, I would like to thank Twitter for their platform, my mobile network reception and my smartphone’s battery for not dying on me.  The combination of these three little things kept me from going totally bonkers yesterday.  It could have been a massacre but alas, there is no blood spatter on my passport.

My new passport.

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Four years is not. Long. Enough.

Two guys were standing outside having a cigarette oblivious to the storms of anxiety raging in my soul.  I sighed deeply, but timed it badly, as I managed to inhale seventeen tonnes of second-hand smoke.  I squeezed passed the smokers, as they were courteous enough NOT to make any space for pedestrians.  I wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation.  I could have killed them with my one-touch-Ninja-jab, but decided to spare their lives.  I had bigger fish to fry.

I grabbed the handle of the glass-door and swung it open.

The disgusting smell of nicotine was replaced by something worse.  An odour straight from a troll’s armpit, attacked my nostrils.  Somehow I suppressed the urge of flight and made it to the counter.  The rude receptionist barely looked up.  What a great day I was having, being ignored twice. Continue reading