In which Rupert mends my annoying morning

Very little to say today too. After my holiday, the maison communale's bridge holiday (because why should civil servants take the one publicly funded holiday everybody else gets when two is so much better), and the acquisition of a new set of passport photographs, which took visits to four booths, two studios closed for the summer break, and one excruciatingly stupid phone call to the booth-company (following their instructions to call a hotline to find out the closest machine when one was busted and instead having a conversation with a nincompoop), I'm actually going to go to the Belgium equivalent of the Ministry of Transort or DMV or whatever and get my actual license, which will involve queueing from 8 am until . . . I don't fucking know.

Except, Belgium being Belgium, I probably won't get a license today, despite a Belgian licence being nothing but a folded piece of printed salmon bristolboard with a photo attached to it, because these people are fucknards. My hope is to get it and an international license sometime within the next month before I go to Canada. You see how effectively I've lowered my expectations . . . it really helps me get through life here.

Let me just leave you with a quick reminder of what celebrity is good for: occasionally one of them will say awesome things. Like this:

"He (Michael Jackson) personified the pain and anxiety of a black man in a slave country. We all watched as he changed from black to white. He was living performance art."

Oh Rupert Everett. Don't ever change, no, don't you ever change, oh promise me you're always going to be as . . .you know . . . as you are.

UPDATE

After a mere two hours of queuing - lengthened by the desk workers 'forgetting' to hit the button inviting all ticket holders after 61 to advance for 15 minutes or so - I got both my Belgian and international license all in one shot. I am now indistinguishable from a grown-up. Yay!