For Your Eyes Only: HS

27. Starting Up Trouble

Ok, so, I have a wedgie.

Not the most ideal situation to be in whilst being interviewed for a passport. 

I've tried to subtly pick it out three times now, but first of all, I don't think it's possible to do so without anybody noticing, and I also have made no progress. I'm just going to have to wait until the end of the interview. 

Pity we're only two minutes and thirty odd seconds into the actual interview. Not that I've been counting or anything. 

"Do you have any pets, Mrs. Jacobs?" The male interviewer asks me. He looks like he could be in his early thirties, despite the fact that he has started balding quite a bit. He also has a few crumbs stuck in his medium length beard. 

But there were two things wrong with the question he just asked me. 

1. Where the hell is the relevance in that question? Pets? Seriously?

2. I'm 19 years old and unmarried. I think Miss applies to me rather than Mrs.

"I--um, no, I don't..." I reply nervously. Interviews like these always make me nervous. "But just to clarify, it's 'Miss', not 'Mrs'."

"Just another one of my many tricks, Miss Jacobs. You see, if you didn't pick that up, I would've been concerned and therefore suspected you of fraud. You better listen carefully - I have many tricks up my sleeve," he winks. Ew.

"Noted." I can't make eye contact any longer, so instinctively I look to my hands, which are placed nervously in my lap. 

Now I can't help thinking back to just a couple of days ago, at Harry's house. I haven't seen him since, but we've been texting back and forth a little bit. To be honest, the whole night seemed so surreal to me, but, cheesy as it may be, I can still feel where he touched me and I can also remember how his lips felt against mine. That's how I know that it truly happened. Plus I have a tattoo - that he executed - as proper evidence. Minor detail.

I need to drink red wine more often if that's what I get as a reward. 

"Miss Jacobs? Are you listening? I just asked you a very important question." The interviewer has his eyebrows raised in expectance. Oops. 

"I'm very sorry, sir. I'm just extremely tired," I lie. I probably got about eleven hours of sleep last night. It was probably one of the best sleeps I've had in a long time. But sleeping in Harry's bed definitely tops it...

"My question was - and I will only repeat this once - why do you feel the need to have a British passport? Why are you going to Australia?"

"Because I live there! I lost my passport, and I need to get home!" I practically shout at the man, this is extremely infuriating. But at the same time, the more I think about it, the more this already feels like home. Well, maybe not home per se - it's just starting to feel like a norm. I don't even care that I'm living in a shit shack.

It's not like I can just stay here, though. I have family and friends across the world who I haven't seen in ages. I miss my mum so much, despite her crazy personality. I miss Cheryl, most of all though. I feel like I've really thrown her under the bus on this holiday. Part of it wasn't my fault. I'm just a magnet to these kinds of situations. 

"I'm sorry Miss Jacobs, but it's my job to ask these types of questions." The man looks at me sympathetically, and now I know that I was too harsh. I can't help it. Not to make excuses or anything, but I'm due for my period any day now. These are usually my worst days. 

So the interview continues for another 25 minutes and I try not to pick a fight with the weirdo. It seems I've done ok because he smiles at the end and says, "thank you Miss Jacobs. We'll be in contact with you as soon as possible. I know that you need to get home, but protocol is protocol, and it usually takes around three to six weeks to get a new one in--"