Got any ID?

My identity saga continues.
Having dutifully shaved off the ’mo, had my passort photo taken, had said photos signed by Jeffrey as a witness, I then discovered I needed “one official document that includes your photograph and signature”. In other words, a ‘Birth Card’. Sheesh.

I admit I’ve been slow getting my shit together – and reading forms thoroughly is definitely not my forté - but this identity-confirmation hoop-jumping is almost Pythonesque. Anyway, I made it down to the NSW Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages with what identification I could scrounge in order to apply for this magical card, which I had never even heard of before.

I’d filled out the standard form but there were several more questions I had to answer through the presumably bullet-proof partition separating me and my registrar.
Where was I born? North Sydney. Which street? Alfred Street. How old was my father when I was born? Umm, 32? Yeah, 32. What was my father’s occupation when I was born? Mmmm…

I was totally stumped and silently freaking out that this may well be my downfall. What if they refuse to give me a Birth Card because I don’t know what job dad had at the time? Does this somehow disqualify me from claiming my own identity? Or does it just make me look like a lousy son who doesn’t pay attention to his parents and therefore doesn’t really deserve to even have a so-called Birth Card?

I expressed my bewilderment that I had to answer all these questions and he looked at me with a weary “I know” look.
“It’s all because of 2001,” he said, motioning behind him with his thumb, as if the person responsible for this ludicrous bureaucracy was sitting there, mocking me.
Then I realised he meant 9/11. The World Trade Center!
Blame the terrorists!

I told him I didn’t know where my father was working at the exact moment I emerged from the womb and he noted that on his little form. In fact, there were a few ‘don’t know’s on the form by the time we were finished but this was apparently okay – I shelled out 60 bucks or so and he led me to the far window to have my photo taken.

This was the bit I was dreading, more than I usually dread having my photo taken. Not only was this photo going to be my Vital Proof of Identity for the next five years, I am currently sporting the world’s worst cold sore on my lower lip. It looks like I had a canape of cockroach and forgot to wipe my mouth.

Quietly mortified, I declined the offer to ‘smile if you like’ and waited for what seemed like hours for the goddamn camera to take the shot. It made a series of disconcerting whirring sounds, which I imagine had something to do with ‘biometric measuring’, the flash went off and I was shown the result.

“Is that OK?” I was asked.
“That’s as good as it’s going to get,” I replied, more depressed than ever.

The one bright moment of this little adventure was seeing the lovely Della Deluxe, local drag persona extraordinaire, at work behind the glass.
Sadly, she wasn’t wearing this: