I've probably mention
this numerous times but... I applied for my first British passport
mid May, 5 months ago to be exact, and it's only now that I have been
able to arrange my interview, the final step of the application
process. I won't go on about it, only that something good came out of
it, if you can find an ounce (in this case about half a kilo) of good
in it.
My interview was at Her
Majesty's Passport Office, Victoria, London at 1.15pm. My plan was to
get off at Vauxhall rail station, cross the Thames and walk about
fifteen minutes north to Victoria. I took a couple of wrong turnings
and a slight detour so fifteen minutes ended up taken about half an
hour. I had time enough to grab a beer from the pub across the road
from the passport office, The St George's Tavern. I went in and ordered a half pint, I
immediately up sized to a pint of Meantimes London Pale Ale. Nearly
every pub I've been to in the last couple of weeks seems to stock
Meantime beers. At least with the pale ale I know that I'm guaranteed
to get a decent beer.
I queued up to get into
the passport office for my interview. I was naively surprised to see
not many English speakers with me waiting to get through airport
style security. I checked in with reception and sat waiting for my
number to be called. I went to the loo just before my number was
called so when I came out and noticed my number on screen I had to
quickly rush to the corresponding desk. Sod's law. I was asked a few
questions to confirm my identity, then a series of irrelevant
questions that made me feel like I was rehearsing a scripted
conversation. It was over in a little over ten minutes leaving me
with the rest of the afternoon to kill.
It had only taken an
outrageous 5 bloody months to get to this stage. I was assured I'd
have my passport within the next 5 working days.
I had time to afford
myself another beer and possibly even some food. I took a seat a
quickly skimmed over the menu more to ease my gentle curiosity. I
nearly fainted when I saw it. The elusive whitebait, right there,
with a brief description. Given the option between a pint or half a
pint, I greedily ordered the pint with a side of skin on chips.
The anticipation was
similar to that of a child just before they are allowed to open up
their presents on Christmas morning. My heart rate elevated, my palms
were clammy and my right leg was involuntarily shaking, the way
people tend to associate it with sexual frustration. I was hysterical
with excitement.
It was all brought out
to me a lot quicker than I was expecting, so quick that I received a
fright when the waiter placed the plates on the table in front of me.
It wasn't served in one
of the stupid, showy miniature frying baskets lined with parchment
like I had so envisioned. The little deep fried fish were
unattractively plonked in the kind of shallow bowl I would normally
eat my pasta out of. Presentation aside, they were gorgeous, with a
rich seasoned crumb with a wedge of lemon and a pot of what looked
and tasted like tartar sauce. They were crunchy on the outside and
meaty on the inside. They quickly vanished, one at a time. Head, tail
and all. I was satisfied, happy, no, elated.
A great place to indulge in fishy goodness and pass the time if waiting for the British Government to pull their finger out
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