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had been so ridiculously complex I’d shoved it aside for some moment when time, energy and incentive would mesh together in mystic harmony. Or, as was more likely, that moment when I’d run out of time, and I just had to do the damn thing if I ever wanted to leave the country again. Today, I decided, the planets were in alignment. The zodiac had named this passport-renewal day.
    I emptied out the mass of paperwork, and put the main form on top. Name. Address. How many years at that address. Previous address. How many years at that address. Mother’s maiden name. Name of teachers from kindergarten to degree-level. Teachers’ mothers’ maiden names. I may not be reporting entirely accurately, but that was the gist. I scratched off question after question, progressing smoothly until I got to the payment section, where I was stumped. Although I’ve lived in London all my adult life, I’m Canadian both by upbringing and passport. Canadians are amenable, obliging people. Really, we’re famous for it. The Canadian passport renewal form, however, must have been outsourced, because it was not amenable, nor obliging. I read the instructions a third time. Pay by cheque . I could do that. Pay in local currency only . I could do that too. Make cheque payable to the Canadian government . I’d make it payable to Attila the Hun and his brother if that would get me a new passport. The problem was – I read the instructions for a fifth time – the problem was that nowhere did it tell me how much to pay. That was insane. A sixth time. The information just wasn’t there.
    I sighed, and turned to my computer. I’d downloaded the forms, so most likely I had missed one. Just what I needed today, a meander through a government website, looking for a single needle in a haystack of information. Maybe there would be a number to ring, and I could speak to a real live human being. Even government employees can sometimes, in moments of absent-mindedness, be helpful.
    Government employees. I stopped my search for the Canadians and googled my local council. There. I rang the main number. And, of course, reached an automated menu. Press 1 if you’ve lost the will to live. Press 2 if we’ve got you so worn down you want to cry. I opted for ‘none of the above’ by pressing 0 until I’d driven their phone system into a frenzy and it conceded defeat by transferring me to a person.
    ‘Good afternoon. Dennis Harefield, please.’ Please, I begged silently, not voicemail and another menu.
    And it wasn’t. A man’s voice. ‘Planning.’ Triumph.
    ‘May I speak to Dennis Harefield?’
    ‘He’s not in. How may I help?’
    ‘Are you expecting him anytime soon?’
    ‘I don’t have his schedule.’ The voice was getting testy. ‘What is this concerning?’
    There was no use pretending. I hadn’t thought up a reason for ringing, and I couldn’t see why I should pretend, anyway. ‘My name is Samantha Clair. I’m calling on behalf of a friend. She can’t reach Mr Harefield, and she’s worried.’
    There was a pause. ‘I don’t know anything except he isn’t here.’
    ‘Did he go on holiday? Was there a family emergency?’
    ‘If there was, he didn’t tell anyone. He just didn’t show up.’ The voice was bored.
    ‘I’m sorry to bother you. I know you must be busy.’ You catch more flies with honey. ‘Do you know who I can speak to? Who his friends are in the office? If you can pass me along to one of them, that would get me out of your hair.’
    The voice softened slightly. ‘I would pass you on if I could, I promise. But Dennis wasn’t a friendly type. He didn’t socialise with anyone here. When he didn’t show up, his boss asked around. There isn’t anyone.’ He’d talked himself back into being fed up. ‘That’s all I know. I have to go. His unscheduled absence has piled a huge amount of work on everyone else.’
    Damn. ‘I understand. Thank you for your time, Mr …’ I let the sentence hang.
    He knew what I was