There is nothing speedy about speedy boarding

When my black passport arrived in the post, I decided to take a trip.

I’m not a good flier, so the absence of foreign travel for three years had to be making my fear of flying potentially insurmountable. A one and a half hour flight to Cork felt manageable. The builder boyfriend had already been over to have a look at this farm we’ve had our eye on.

Incidentally, I know this passport is meant to be dark blue, but it’s not, it’s black. And to make it more alarming, the picture of me inside it is bright orange.

I had slapped cheap make-up on my face and was wearing an orange T-shirt when I went to a booth by the checkout at Sainsbury’s which turned out to have a Day-Glo orange seat. Consequently, I look like an Oompa Loompa.

The passport office accepted this, however, so when my funereal new passport arrived I decided I would look at this farmhouse the BB had declared magical but wrecked, and we would make a decision on whether to emigrate, a couple of Brexiteers crawling back into the EU with our tails between our legs because we can’t afford a farm in our precious Britain.

My suspicions were correct because once I got to the airport I became horribly feared up by the crowds and the queuing. The BB checked me in using a blasted app on my phone because there was no one at the budget airline check-in desk, and he deposited me by departures.

Then began the shouting of the guards as I joined the heaving masses snaking around the dividers. ‘Keep moving! Keep moving! Close the gaps!’ It was hideous.