I wouldn't be on a train or indeed had a meltdown, if I could have actually spoken to someone at the Canadian High Commission. Apparently, however, no one actually answers the phone EVER - even if you call their emergency number. No, instead, they would rather you leave a voicemail and "someone will get back to you".
Three voicemails and two emails later, the lazy fuckers email me back on FRIDAY at 4.30pm (bear in mind I had emailed them on Wednesday), to tell me that they're not sure where my passport is and cannot guarantee that it will arrive in time and could I change my travel plans?
The rage, dear readers, the rage!
I was then informed that the Canadian High Commission could issue an emergency temporary passport, but only if I came in person, and even then, sometimes they can issue them on the same day and sometimes it can take up to two days.
So, here I am, a £95 ticket later, rocking back and forth on the Virgin train to London, in a blind rage that is only emphasised by four years of living in Glasgow. At least I am in first class, I suppose.
The upside is that I get to stay with my pal, Mike, and also meet up with our mutual friend, Mark, and his gorgeous daughter, Ava. Come Monday morning, I will be stomping down to Trafalgar Square to Canada House (pictured above) and beg them to either trace down my bloody passport or issue me a temporary one.
Normally I am also pleased to meet fellow Canadians while abroad but after this whole shambolic episode with the Canadian High Commission, I have got to admit that they are the most unhelpful bunch of Canadians I have encountered. Evidently I'm not the only person to comment as much.
We have now crossed the bored into England; hope I don't turn into a pumpkin.