WARNING: this post has nothing, nudda, not-one-thing to do with food. I thought I’d throw a 100% boda fide personal post in here just for kicks, so if you’re all about the food and not about the catty (screw you), I have a doozy of a post ready for you: The Fat Duck.
So. A few years ago, while renewing my drivers licence in Sydney, I remember choosing the five year expiry option, because it’s just a rip off to renew for a year or three. Or maybe I’m just cheap. Roz from Monsters Inc, who so happened to be working at the York Street RTA (who knew?), barked husky orders at me through cigarette-yellowed teeth and I was too petrified to not comply. I filled out my forms with perfectly square printed letters 4mm high x 3mm wide, I signed, I paid, I sat, I smiled.
“WHAT YA SMILIN FOR?” she bellowed.
Me, the rest of the RTA and all the people in the Starbucks next door, we all shat our pants. And she took the photo.
Five effin’ years I was to have this I’ve-shat-my-pants photo as my single form of ID. I couldn’t believe it was going to last me til I’m 30. I mean, gawd, really? That is SO. FAR. AWAY.
But look at that. Five years passed without too many glitches, and I was very much excited about turning 30 because, yes, that photo is now expired (and incinerated).