On Friday morning, I enter the deeply dystopian world of Her Majesty’s Bureau of Obfuscation, otherwise known as the Passport Office. Out of its depth and unable to cope, this government department has deployed the Johnsonian management strategy called ‘Fob Them Off’, the ‘them’ being me. It goes like this: I phone the office for the fiftieth time and for the fiftieth time, give my ‘details’ to the voice down the line. I tell Ms Anonymous I’ve been waiting for three months, that my travel is imminent and she taps loudly at her keyboard. But, like all the others, she only pretends to record what I say. The next time I phone, my file still hasn’t been updated since the 10th May.
Getting a little more assertive, I ask to speak to someone who can actually help and she logs me an urgent call back with the Progress Team. I give my ‘details’ to Mr Progress Team who clacks at his keyboard, sucks his teeth and logs me a call back with the Customer Services Team. When I insist on speaking to Customer Services NOW, he puts me on hold so I can give my details to some anonymous else and repeat my story all over again.
More often than not, the line drops out, the office closes or some overworked robot tells me to phone back another day. All the while, I’m subjected to a fiendish rendition of Bach’s Brandenburg 3, designed by the devil to drive any listener insane. After two weeks and with cancellation deadlines looming, HMPO has achieved the impossible: I’ve actually begun to hate one of my favourite composers. Oh, and I still have absolutely no information about my passport. Clever, isn’t it? Neither Russia nor Iran could do better.
There’s a definite hierarchy of emotions associated with this sort of repeated encounter. The stages are: hope, disappointment, frustration, incredulity, rage, despair. I’m at the despair stage. Understanding this, my lovely husband comes up with a plan. He suggests a walk and a pub meal and I’m amazed to discover a warm, blue-sky afternoon outside. After consulting Angie and Nick, we book a table at the Stag in Falkland and then take a walk in the gorgeous river valley of Maspie Den.
Falkland is as historically charming as any small Fife town and has the added attraction of a Stuart palace and one of the oldest surviving real tennis courts. It was a favourite haunt of Mary, Queen of Scots and the paths of the fairy tale Den originally formed part of the hunting ground for Kings and Queens. Our path winds along the river bank, crosses numerous miniature bridges, ducks under tunnels and eventually doubles back at the water fall, under which we walk. The evening is clear, still and warm and by the time we arrive at the Stag, our moods are completely restored. A glass of wine and some smiling service and I’ve forgotten all about my morning from hell. And blissfully, as it’s the weekend, I can continue to forget about it until Monday.
