Passport to Disaster
By Steven Smith
The phone rings, and one of my best pals the Contessa’s name flashes up. Given that she has just broken her arm —not from a dodgy manicure, but after an alcoholic night out with a famous actress and impromptu shower —I’m intrigued to hear how she’s recovering.
“Dear God,” she wails, “I look like a bald ghost from some horror film.”
Naturally, I assume a hair disaster. A rogue stylist? A fringe too far?
No. Worse.
Her passport photo.
Despite a trip to casualty and being helped onto National Rail, she has somehow managed to squeeze in a post office appointment—only to be bamboozled into accepting a truly dreadful photograph that she must now live with for the next ten years.
“Who even sees it?” she shrieks, with theatrical despair.
Apparently, everyone—if you get it wrong. She informs me the post office is the only safe route: one tiny mistake and your passport is rejected. After a rundown of her upcoming medical appointments, I suggest she apply for a lie down – role in Casualty. or some hospital drama She laughs. Brave woman.
But it gets me thinking—damn, my passport has less than six months left. And suddenly, I’m filled with dread.
Because let’s be honest—who ever looks good in a passport photo? Criminal, creep, horror… perfectly attractive people reduced to something resembling a police appeal.
The idea of sitting in a post office, begging for a retake, is too much. I know actors who have hired full hair, make-up and photographers for their passport pictures—and no, that is not a lie.
So I opt for the modern route. Canada Water station. A sleek little photo booth that promises digital perfection and a handy code for online applications. Simple. Efficient. Foolproof.
Or so I thought.
It’s not vanity—I just don’t want to spend a decade looking like I’ve been dug up.
As Absolutely Fabulous so perfectly put it, when Patsy shows her suspiciously glamorous passport photo to supermodel Erin O’Connor—“The photographer really captured something.”
“Yes,” Saffy replies, “syphilis.”
Exactly.
Normally, the booth is empty. Today? A queue. One person inside, one waiting. Five minutes pass. Then ten. The curtain flaps about like a West End audition.
I ask the woman in front if she’s waiting. She nods—her friend is inside. Not long now, surely.
Another ten minutes go by. The poor woman confesses her friend doesn’t like the photo. The new machines let you choose your image, apparently—a blessing and a curse.
After fifteen minutes, my inner monologue is writing stand-up material.
“Shall I pop for a coffee?” I ask, politely, wondering if we’ll need provisions.
Finally, the curtain flies open and out steps a large, sheepish man.
“Sorry, mate,” he says. “Couldn’t get it right.”
I step in, determined. One shot. No vanity. No drama.
The result?
Not quite horror film—but definitely “startled cat caught in headlights.”
Still, it passed. No post office. No rejection.
The rest, thankfully, was plain sailing.
2Shades Magazine 