Passport

As part of Betty's first birthday pressie, we decided to sort her passport out. What better present could there be than access to THE WHOLE WORLD. Not just a pretty face, see. 

The kick in the teeth comes when she finds out that actually, we can't afford for her to go on holiday yet; but it's the thought that counts.

I have three problems with obtaining a child's passport.

1) An adult's ten year passport is £70. A child's five year passport is £50. Errr...pardon?! Can someone explain to me why it is not £35? Greedy grabbing sods.

2) Most ridiculously, photographs of infants must be against a white background - with NO EVIDENCE OF ANY OTHER PERSON PRESENT IN THE PICTURE. Again...what the Hell are you on about? How do you photograph a three month old for a passport - suspend them from the ceiling like a puppet?

Turns out it's a good job we're not going anywhere yet, because we needed in getting the picture for the thing, we spent seven months crouched in the corner of a filthy photo booth, so we'd have missed our flight by now anyway.

Inside the booth we chose to use there was, in the centre, a height adjustable stool, which coincidentally enough, was not only incapable of reaching the soaring heights to which it would need to extend for The Poop to sit on it for her photograph, in turn, it also doubled up as a comprehensive death trap for any inquisitive eleven month old. Genius.

Easing our way into the thing, I placed Boo precariously on the tiny stool before negotiating my body and shopping into the corner behind her. Having noted an assortment of old lolly sticks, sweet wrappers, fag ends and worrying smears of what I hoped to God were mud scattered about the walls and floor, I decided to stick with crouching.

Once I had pinned myself into a particularly joint-stiffeningly painful squat, while supporting Boo so she would not fall back off the stool, I used my nose to begin pressing buttons while following the on screen instructions. Except from my 'wall chair' position, I couldn't see the bloody screen.

Rejigging my position so I could view the screen meant my head floating about in the background of the photograph, which if caught by the camera would be TOTALLY CATASTROPHIC, so my descent back to the chewing gum spattered floor would have to be pretty swift.

After finally pressing all the relevant buttons, and somehow stopping Betty from leaning forward and randomly jabbing at the screen herself, we approach the section of the agility test which involved actually taking some photographs.We were pointedly informed that we would get three chances only. It went something like this.

Chance One
The top of Betty's head, down to and including her eyebrows in shot.

Chance Two
Betty decided to launch herself forward towards the screen the second prior to the photograph being taken - resulting in an image which does not contain The Poop at all, and instead, as I have leapt up to catch her, has my bum centre stage. 

Final Chance
Having had to learn quickly from our previous mistakes, and with this being our only shot at success with the current £5, the chances of pulling off anything reasonable at this point in the proceedings was slim. This chance was depleted further when a searing attack of cramp raged through my calf and resulted in me suddenly standing bolt upright in the corner of the booth just as I heard the shutter click.
Yet in some astounding, miraculous twist of fate, we left the booth with these pictures.

3) My final issue with obtaining a child passport? Returning home, jubilant and utterly amazed that we managed, under such farcical circumstances, to capture an image fit for immigration consumption, I read the small print.
IN ALL PHOTOGRAPHS EACH APPLICANT MUST BE LOOKING DIRECTLY AT THE CAMERA, MOUTH CLOSED, WEARING A NEUTRAL EXPRESSION.

Standing at the back door still scraping chewing gum from the soles of my shoes, I hit that torturous wall of rage that makes you wander round the house for the next three days, in silence, kicking inanimate objects and bubbling with white hot fury.

So turns out we aren't going on holiday. Ever. Or certainly not until The Poop can pose perfectly for a picture, operate a computer and pay for a passport out of her own bloody wages.