It wasn’t a proud day to be my British passport.
I opened the door up to the delivery guy in an oversized Big Bang Theory t-shirt and no bra. I’d just gotten up from eating breakfast – the usual four pieces of toast – and had crumbs down my shirt and Vegemite across my chin. Behind me, there was a decomposing corpse on the television (I was re-watching an episode of Bones) and two of my three domestic house cats.
The delivery guy – the same one who I’d been bothering for the last week to try and find an acceptable delivery time around my prior commitments – smiled politely, although his expression was pained. Why can’t I get the normal ones, it seemed to say.
Embarrassed, I cleared my throat and tried to look more presentable. Tucked the hair out of my face. Wiped off those crumbs. It didn’t work wonders, but it was something.
My dog Andi came charging out of the house then, barking and crying, finally noticing someone at the door. She was like that. She barked at people down the street, but couldn’t hear when someone was at the house.
Andi collapsed at the delivery guy’s feet and begged for a tummy rub, as if she hadn’t just gotten one two minutes ago. The delivery guy – to his absolute credit – stepped around her, handed me the device to sign and gave me the package. Then, with a crisp nod, he was gone.
I retreated to the safety of the lounge room and tore open the pasty, yellow envelope. There, in the middle of some broachers and how-tos, sat my British passport.
And there, covered in cats and crumbs, sat me.
It definitely wasn’t a proud day to be my British passport.