Lost...And Found

My friend J came to stay with me for a few days from Belfast, and I took great pride and joy in showing her all the wonderful things to see and do (and drink and eat) that there are in London. However, our most memorable experience was probably also the least pleasant. J arrived on the Weds afternoon, and after a happy chat with L over gingerbread lattes we headed back to the house. J dropped off her case, and we headed to my wonderful local pub, El Commandante. There is indeed a shrine to Che just off the Holloway Rd, and it is run by two South American guys, who are always very enthusiastic when you turn up and very laid back about how long it takes you to finish your beer. Then my flatmate L joined us, we went to Gallipoli for food, and then J asked to go for (yet another!) pint, so we headed to the Keston Lodge. We sat on a leather sofa and chatted away, then suddenly, J lent down to get something from her bag, that had been at her feet, and that was it. It was gone. We didn't see anything, although the people opposite us had (in hindsight) been suspisciously friendly so maybe that was a distraction technique. But who knows? J lost her make-up, her phone, her wallet, her cards and...her passport. Her only photo ID to get the plane back home on Monday!!

We spent the next day ringing round various places, talking to the police (who couldn't investigate the CCTV footage at the pub because "we don't have the resources" - they actually asked J to look through it herself, if she could get the manager of the pub to let her!!!) and finally trundled down to the passport office at Victoria to get J her replacement passport. Or so we thought. We got stuck in a ridiculous bureaucratic nightmare. First of all, they only agree to give you an appointment to obtain an emergency passport if you can 'prove' your need to travel. J had no proof she lived or worked in Belfast, as hey, guess what, that had all been stolen. (Also the stupid man seemed to think Belfast was abroad!!!!) Then he said that he couldn't get my passport number for the countersignature off the system (though he could locate J's ENTIRE passport) as "it was against data protection. That means it's illegal", he said, as if we were dimwits who didn't know what that meant (and actually if I'm there I can waive this and give him permission, as I have a right to see anything written about me and held electronically under the same piece of law). Then he said the only way to get an appointment was not to talk to him, who was actually in the building and had all J's details on the screen in front of him, but to ring a call centre(!) where they give out appointments for the London office! Un fuckingbelievable! By this point J asked him how she was meant to get home, and he just shrugged and said "I dunno". I wanted to HIT the man, but knew that was not a good idea, so I resorted to my usual tactic, and began to cry (not ostentatiously, just a few tears). At this point, another, older man, not a callow youth, emerged. He was wearing a suit rather than some horrendous UKPassport fleece. It transpired this older gentleman came from Belfast (the whole world and his dog has an NI connection, it sometimes seems), and he suggested to us that we went up to the Coach Station and investigated purchasing a coach ticket, and if that didn't work, coming back, and trying to get an emergency appointment for 7:30am(!) the next day, where you just queue and queue until they can see you. We managed to buy J a coach ticket, and she will get a new passport back in Belfast (part of the UK, if anyone from the passport office is reading this blog, though I expect they are too stupid to read).

But! the story does not end there. We spied a pub on our return from the coach station, just opposite the passport office and called (appropriately enough) The St George. So we went there, got a table, and were amused by the sight of harried people at the bar filling in passport forms and saying things like "Do you think my hair covers my eyes too much?" "What's the date today?" etc etc. Gradually the pub filled up with young men in their 20s, 30s, 40s, mostly in suits. Some of them sat next to us. I turned to the one sat next to me, just my type (shy, slim, boyish looking) and screwing up all my feminine intuition said "I don't suppose you work for the passort office do you?" Ha! Correct first time! J and I regaled them with how much we hated them, and they bought us many many pints as consolation. J was particularly taken with the older, rugged, grey haired one (how fortunate, both our types represented - at least the passport office has some taste in choosing its employees). The older one had a mean line in filthy jokes that were v amusing. The younger one told me how his job, travelling the country investigating passport fraud, takes him often to Belfast but makes it hard to have a relationship, meaning he is still single. The younger one left, them came back. I went outside to take a phone call. He came outside. I hung up on my phone call. He said "I only came back to speak to you, and you were outside." He gave me a hug. Then he said "I tell you what, here's my phone number. If you want to go for a drink, give me a ring. It's your choice." Then he disappeared into the night, and J and I went for curry.

Should I ring him?