If You Don't Like The Way I Drive Then Get Off The Footpath

I went back to the RTA for a third time today and finally managed to get my driver's license. And you would think I'd be pleased but in fact I am PISSED OFF because I look like a fucking AXE MURDERER in the picture! I know that everybody is supposed to look bad in ID photos but there is bad and there is Baaad. There is looking a bit off colour or tired, and there is looking malicious and arrestable. The only benefit is that I can whip it out like capsicum spray to scare off people who try to attack me.

Along with my evil, piercingly santanic stare, my head ended up looking rather boxy in a root vegetable, news reader sort of a way so I look like a fugly , boxy, axe murderer. I thought all the hours I have spent watching the Top Model franchise shows online would have helped me to develop a great technique for staring at a camera and waiting for it to take a picture of me, but apparently not.

Of course, it has occurred to me that the problem, rather than being with a badly taken photo, lies with the fact that I look like an evil Rob Kelvin* dressed up as a sweet potato but I think if that was the case then surely somebody would have mentioned it to me by now... right?



*If you are not familiar with Rob, one of Adelaide's most boringly staid news-readers, then just imagine what David Hasselhoff would look like if he were an upstanding member of the local Uniting Church, never drank alcohol, bred pigeons, and had a name like "Rob" or "Reg" and you're pretty much there. Now imagine this person looking like a sweet potato with a scarf around their neck and you know exactly what I look like in my license picture.

Eavesdropping Is Awesome

I really, really like sitting around on ugly plastic chairs in waiting areas where an automated voice calls out numbers on tickets and tells you which counter to visit. I like it so much that I decided to go back to the motor registry place on my day off last week just so I could be told there was nothing they could do and I should try again next week, which is what they told me the week before. It was awesome.

The cherry on top to my wonderful banana split with extra choclate and nuts of an excursion was at the expence of the woman next to me (ticket number T45, counter 4). The woman behind the counter asked her what her previous address was and she said "22 Queen St Woo-Wah-Wah". The poor, poor dear - of all the suburbs to live in when you have a quite significant speech impediment. I only hope for her sake that she didn't leave Woolhara only to move to Wooloomooloo or Warriwee.