2003-02-12 at 5:34 p.m.

Today I finally went to get a replacement '18+' card. The last one was stolen several months ago, and I was getting pretty darn sick of having to take my passport with me everytime I wanted a hard night on the booze.

Of course, it was just my luck to be served by Patti and/or Selma Bouvier.

I walked over to the counter.

"What?"

"I'm here to get a new '18+' card. Here's my form."

"ID?"

I handed my passport to her. She gave me a look that clearly said 'This is all your fault. I have to take time out of my day to serve you, and I just hope you know how lucky you are, young lady.'

The next problem arrived when she tried to telephone my referrer (I had to have the form signed by someone with an existing driver's license. My form had been signed by my next door neighbour). She dialled the number, held the phone to her ear for a few moments, then put the phone down.

"There's no answer".

She looked at me like this was my fault.

"Um. Can't you try again?"

She tried again. "There's no answer" she repeated, giving me the kind of look that, once grown and cultivated, could conceivably be served with a tequila shot and a sprinkling of salt.

"Maybe it's the wrong number. I'll look it up. Do you have a phone book?"

Apparently her hearing wasn't all that great, because she somehow heard this as "Could I please have the moon served to me on a silver platter? Oh, and could all the citizens of Estonia dance in a giant conga line for my amusement?"

She told me, in an immensely condescending voice, to go to the end of the counter, and she'd have a look. She then promptly went and served someone else.

I was beginning to get pissed off.

I rang Russel, the neighbour, on my mobile phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Russel, it's Michelle. I'm down at the RTA, and they were just trying to call you to check that I am who I say I am. Even though they've just seen five or six forms of ID".

"Yeah, sorry about that, Michelle. I was just on the phone."

"Okay, well, they'll probably call you back in the next five minutes or so. Sorry about all this".

"That's okay".

Five minutes later, the woman returned to my window, sans phone book. I explained what had happened, while she gave me a look that clearly read 'Sure, and I'm the Gypsy Queen of France', and plunked the phone down in front of me. I dialled, said 'hello' to Russel, then handed the phone to Miss Doubting Thomas.

"Hi... yes? Yes, that's right. Okay, just had to check that. Thank you for your time".

She hung up the phone and ushered me back to my original window, taking my ID away with her to be photocopied.

While waiting, I glanced at the desk next to the counter. One object caught my eye- a folder with some sort of form glued to the front. The title of the form was-

Bandit? I didn't know anyone actually used that word. It sounds so 'Wild West Pantomime' to me. I guess it has a less threatening sound than 'car jacker'- a term which to me suggests several rude and almost physically impossible situations.

The left side of the form had an outline of a human figure on it, upon which the bandit's distinguishing features- hair, eyes, clothes, etc- could be drawn. Along the bottom of the form were illustrations of several different makes of guns. On the right side of the form was a series of questions about the bandit.

I had to stifle my laughter when I read the last question, which in true 'Wild West Pantomime' style, read-

I wonder if anyone has ever answered 'Behind you! Behind you!' to this question.

Finally, Patty/Selma Bouvier came back, took a photo of me making my Squinty Face�, printed out my ID card, and charged me $34 for it.

She didn't even tell me to 'Have a Nice Day'.

I guess she knew it would be a bit redundant at this point.