AMID all the doom and gloom we read about daily, I’d like to give all Weekend Post readers something to chuckle about. As my Irish passport was due for renewal, and I am traveling to Oz in the new year, at the end of June I downloaded the forms, had the regulatory mug-shots taken, and three days later, armed with all the necessary identification, went to our nearest Commissioner of Oaths, the Postmaster of the Sunridge Park Post Office, an affable man named Patrick Maxakana.

After being ushered into his office, my husband and I stood there, in front of his desk. I recall it felt rather like being called in to the Headmaster’s office about 60 years ago. I explained carefully that I needed him to just sign and stamp the reverse side of just one of the mug-shots (coloured), to state it was a true likeness of ME, and stamp it accordingly for submission to the Irish Embassy. (I’ve done this many times in my life.)

My ID etc was open on his desk, I was standing in front of him, and I duly removed my specs as the photo had been taken sans spectacles. He studied the pics intently. He kept looking up at me. He went back to gaze avidly at the mug-shots. By this time I was becoming a tad puzzled.

Eventually he raised his head, and succinctly stated, “I cannot sign this photo.” Assuming he was “having me on” I politely laughed, as did my hubby, and waited. When he stretched to hand the shots back to me, I realised the guy was serious.

Totally confused, I asked the inevitable, “but why”? He looked me straight in the eye and stated, “Because the lady in this photo, she is beautiful!”

I was dumfounded, explained that he was making a mistake, or “having me on”. I said that there was absolutely no difference between the photo and me, it had only been taken three days before, I had not had my hair coloured, cut or even washed it! I was still 99% convinced he was joking with me. But I was wrong. He was deadly serious. Throwing my toys out the cot like the proverbial two-year-old, I furiously asked him if he was implying that I was ugly. He blustered, denied he was, but adamantly refused to sign my photo because the lady in the photo was beautiful, and could just not be me. Twenty minutes later, following futile attempts to have it signed, we had no option but to leave, my mission unaccomplished.

Well, whilst knowing I am not, and never have been, the likes of Sophia Loren/Elizabeth Taylor, I have, in the past, assumed I was at least “passable”. Now, sadly, disillusionment reigns supreme. My self esteem has been eroded, my confidence sapped, my ego eliminated, my pride purged, my illusions shattered. Is it possible to sue the Minister of Posts and Telegraphs for, well, for my wounded soul?

Quack, quack from the ugly duckling of the Stella Londt Retirement Complex. – MAUREEN BRYDEN

PS. Donations from readers for a facelift, laser treatment, botox, or even a treatment using polyfilla will be gratefully accepted.)