My face is my passport

After accepting a kind invitation to my brother's plastic flower party in London at the end of the month (yep, a plastic flower party), I suddenly realised that my bloomin' passport had expired! Cue panic and apprehension of bureaucracy.

However, after a quick visit to the British Embassy and I am reassured that I can just pop in one morning, give them all the necessary (including 158 fuggin' euros) and leave with it under my arm.

I did, of course, need a new photo, and I thought it would be fun to compare it with the previous one...

(Click photo for scary size)

So what had changed? Well, in 1998 the crappo machine in the métro gave me a soft of hobbit-like soft haze and doe eyes. Really not me. I did quite like that haircut though.

Hairline seems to be fairly stable. Face is bit thinner. Also, America's continuing war on moisture means that the new photo must conform to biometric standards, meaning that I'm not allowed to smile. So, I look a bit stern but - frankly - it could have been a lot worse.

For once, I think I prefer the new me!