Papers, please.
“Papers, please”. Used to be something we associated with life in an occupied country, from a war movie. This time around, it’s the rallying cry for the voting class. Anyone who is newly arrived in a place had best check with the election rules before assuming their right to vote will be respected.
In my case, I’d already acquired enough wallet plastic to smooth the road. For son #3, no such assurance. He’s new to the economy, so those familiar bank statements, with an address, or mortgage papers, with an address, or others now listed as viable proof of identity weren’t available. This morning, we gathered up a whole set of supporting documents (for he and me) and set off to request a “voluntary ID card”.
Happily, our local service centre is staffed by local people, and we’ve been in often enough to have that magical “face” now required to deal with bureaucracy. After signing and swearing and promising to be good, he received the invitation to have his photo taken (although the $50 fee wasn’t waived because he was handsome). He’s now ready to stand and mark his X, in just under two months.
In the mail, we received letters from our former government office, reminding us that we were no longer covered by their provincial health system (unless there had been an error, and we had thirty days to hold up our hand and shout). I’m actually glad that they’ve noticed our departure; the new health cards must be coming, really soon now.
Outside the front door, back home, a guardian. After some careful prodding, the preening monster stood fast while I snapped her photo:
