How much is that doggy?

A few weeks ago Ned realised that we ought to do a booze-cruise soon, to stock up for Christmas. To his horror he discovered his passport had expired, so I got him an application form from the Post Office, and we spent a merry morning trying to find a photo booth where the resulting mugshot failed to make him resemble an elderly serial killer. But at last we got a tolerable result, whereupon Ned made a mistake filling the form.

I got a replacement form, which was put onto the kitchen table and immediately lost. Meanwhile, Christmas was getting closer. I decided to blitz the kitchen, my energy levels and enthusiasm lasted long enough to disinter the application, so last weekend he duly completed it and took it into the Post Office for checking and sending off on Monday morning.

Much to our astonishment the shiny new passport (What happened to the 'European Community'? It now says 'European Union' – pah!) arrived back today. I reckon to be fast-tracked like that he must have had an affair with David Blunkett’s guide dog.