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Apr. 13th, 2011 06:17 pmOnly one form to go this week, if I'm lucky. Mind you, that form is proving recalcitrant.
Even my passport form proved recalcitrant, however, during my official interview. The interviewer ventured into a mild state of concern when she realised that my only photo ID was a student card. I do not have a driving license and the State of Victoria does not have birth cards. I checked this latter a couple of weeks ago, in case it would expedite matters: when I discovered they really don't have them, even though they're a primary form of identification if you want to obtain an Australian passport, I wondered if the State of Victoria likes to pretend its babies aren't born. It might be that it's only me they want to disown, which is understandable, after all. It's probably simply that the Passports Office hasn't convinced them yet that I need to be definitively alive.
Also, the Birth Certificate issued by the State of Victoria had to be puzzled over (justifiably, in my opinion) because it really did look a bit fake. In 1983 they used a glow in the dark photocopier for birth certificates - I'm convinced of this.
In the end, all was well, and now the form and proofs of identity have been kicked upstairs. In two or three weeks, I may have a passport. Or I may not. I'm pretty sure that forms don't appreciate me. My passport depends on the powers-that-be taking this into account.
It's all swings and roundabouts. A family (the family I spend Christmas with most years) who can't get to my birthday party are giving me a birthday dinner instead. The only decent eating place in the whole of Canberra open that day is the Yacht Club.
I love the Yacht Club. It's such a strange thing to find in a city with only manmade (small) lakes. And yet it has produced a Sydney-Hobart winner. The Yacht Club used to have very fine food, served overlooking the lake. I suspect it still does. On a really rough day, the waters of lake Burley Griffin become ruffled. Yachting in Canberra isn't quite the same as yachting in Sydney, I suspect.
I will have to dress up. The friends who are taking me are very unsympathetic about this. They think I might be able to manage. Anyway, it's going to be wonderful - a table full of my alternate family and, earlier in the day, my oldest friend (who is in town for the Folk Festival) and my god-daughter.
PS I have 6 spare passport photos. If anyone wants a picture of Gillian-about-to-leave-49-for-the-final-time, just say. I look peculiarly vacant, as if I lost my intelligence on the road to menopause*.
PPS Blogging will be very late tomorrow. Everything will be very late tomorrow. I will have no electricity. A bunch of blokes have been standing outside for two days, talking and putting up different kinds of fences. They put one up, draw lines, take it down, put another one up, dig holes. Apparently this all culminates with a brand new power pole, tomorrow. All tomorrow. The sad contents of my freezer go to a good home tonight. Just in time for Passover.
*I intend to mention menopause a lot in the future. This is sympathetic magic, of a kind. I want it to hurry up and arrive! I'm getting all my earlier symptoms in reverse and the latest one is sleepless nights. Today I was functioning on two hours sleep, which was not enough for an excursion and all those messages and forms and my passport interview and the ritual pre-Passover cookathon. It's certainly not enough for the crit group I am about to attend. Let me, therefore, say the word again and hope that it WORKS: menopause, menopause, menopause.
Even my passport form proved recalcitrant, however, during my official interview. The interviewer ventured into a mild state of concern when she realised that my only photo ID was a student card. I do not have a driving license and the State of Victoria does not have birth cards. I checked this latter a couple of weeks ago, in case it would expedite matters: when I discovered they really don't have them, even though they're a primary form of identification if you want to obtain an Australian passport, I wondered if the State of Victoria likes to pretend its babies aren't born. It might be that it's only me they want to disown, which is understandable, after all. It's probably simply that the Passports Office hasn't convinced them yet that I need to be definitively alive.
Also, the Birth Certificate issued by the State of Victoria had to be puzzled over (justifiably, in my opinion) because it really did look a bit fake. In 1983 they used a glow in the dark photocopier for birth certificates - I'm convinced of this.
In the end, all was well, and now the form and proofs of identity have been kicked upstairs. In two or three weeks, I may have a passport. Or I may not. I'm pretty sure that forms don't appreciate me. My passport depends on the powers-that-be taking this into account.
It's all swings and roundabouts. A family (the family I spend Christmas with most years) who can't get to my birthday party are giving me a birthday dinner instead. The only decent eating place in the whole of Canberra open that day is the Yacht Club.
I love the Yacht Club. It's such a strange thing to find in a city with only manmade (small) lakes. And yet it has produced a Sydney-Hobart winner. The Yacht Club used to have very fine food, served overlooking the lake. I suspect it still does. On a really rough day, the waters of lake Burley Griffin become ruffled. Yachting in Canberra isn't quite the same as yachting in Sydney, I suspect.
I will have to dress up. The friends who are taking me are very unsympathetic about this. They think I might be able to manage. Anyway, it's going to be wonderful - a table full of my alternate family and, earlier in the day, my oldest friend (who is in town for the Folk Festival) and my god-daughter.
PS I have 6 spare passport photos. If anyone wants a picture of Gillian-about-to-leave-49-for-the-final-time, just say. I look peculiarly vacant, as if I lost my intelligence on the road to menopause*.
PPS Blogging will be very late tomorrow. Everything will be very late tomorrow. I will have no electricity. A bunch of blokes have been standing outside for two days, talking and putting up different kinds of fences. They put one up, draw lines, take it down, put another one up, dig holes. Apparently this all culminates with a brand new power pole, tomorrow. All tomorrow. The sad contents of my freezer go to a good home tonight. Just in time for Passover.
*I intend to mention menopause a lot in the future. This is sympathetic magic, of a kind. I want it to hurry up and arrive! I'm getting all my earlier symptoms in reverse and the latest one is sleepless nights. Today I was functioning on two hours sleep, which was not enough for an excursion and all those messages and forms and my passport interview and the ritual pre-Passover cookathon. It's certainly not enough for the crit group I am about to attend. Let me, therefore, say the word again and hope that it WORKS: menopause, menopause, menopause.