I'm heading over to Sydney in October for my cousin's wedding. I can't wait - but of course, my passport has expired, so I headed into a pharmacy after work to get the photo sorted.
I spent an inordinate amount of time fixing my hair (one of my best assets, it's important to me the artificial intelligence scanning my face appreciates it) and glowered down the camera lens.
The result was shocking. I sent it to my sister.
"You look like you've just killed someone."
She was right. It was just like one of those mugshots you see on late-night true crime shows.
"After the 34-year-old's crime spree was over, he bought takeaway curry. He became known as the Butter Chicken Butcher."
I had the shocked expression of a man who had the same intimate knowledge of a cattle prod that a bull does.
My bloodshot eyes implied, erm - higher knowledge.
The bags under my eyes will have me charged for extra luggage.
I'm not paying $23 again, though - I have curries to buy - so I'm going to suck it up for 10 years and hope it doesn't see me pulled into a windowless office on international territory every time I want to go gawk at a kangaroo.
My family seems to have some bad luck with that.
In 2013, my parents drove around the south of England.
After 10 days with several stops, mum and dad pulled up at the last hotel near Heathrow Airport and high-fived in the rental car. The trip had been a roaring success! Nothing had gone wrong. No dents in the car, although on the final day the rental car company had been a bit pushy, trying to sell them another day of rental. They shrugged it off and approached the hotel concierge.
"I'm sorry, but you aren't booked to stay here tonight."
Mum, in full 'Karen' mode, was incensed. She had booked it herself, keyed in the correct date with both index fingers.
"Do you have any paperwork, madam?"
Paperwork? Indeed she had paperwork. By God this madam had paperwork. She fished it out of her bag and brandished the email print-out.
The concierge looked at it.
"I think I can see the problem," he said.
They'd spent an extra day on the road. They were supposed to be somewhere over the Indian Ocean by that point. Kind of explained why the rental car company kept calling to ask if they wanted to pay for another day.
Then there was the time mum was interrogated at Sydney Airport over three-quarters of a bottle of Tia Maria over the alcohol allowance.
"How much is in there?" Customs asked.
"Three-quarters of a bottle."
"Well, how much is that?"
"About… three-quarters… of a bottle."
How can we forget the time Mum and I tried to smuggle 12 pottles of playdough into Australia? In retrospect, I can see why that might have looked suspicious on the X-ray.
Seems to be a common denominator here.
As long as I travel without my mother, the Butter Chicken Butcher will fly again.
Felix Desmarais is a journalist and mostly-former stand-up comedian who sold out very cheaply. He loves his mother dearly.
