Well, it was better than a trip to Lunar House. (I pray that regardless of what the UK referendum in three weeks’ time will decide, that I don’t have to go back there.)
The trouble is that Sweden has got a lot tighter with its citizens, and not just by forcing the Danes to check passports before they let people cross the Öresund. But after months of panicking, Daughter and I visited the local police station for new passports.
We came well prepared, if a bit worried, as we are definitely not the ideal kind of customer. One of us born in one place and one in the other, the first one living in the other place and the second one living in a third place. And how many nationalities do we have between us and how many have we turned down?
But we live in hope of getting our new little red books soon. Neither of us look especially pretty in the photos they took of us, narrowly avoiding the hooligan mug shot look.
And sometimes you despair of doing it. I went to pick up a parcel a few days ago, for which you need photo ID. I showed the girl in the shop my ID card and she looked puzzled and asked ‘what’s this?’ As a former pro at this kind of thing, I was suitably horrified, but pointed out that we don’t all drive cars, while silently wondering what she herself had used when – not all that long ago, judging by her looks – she wouldn’t have had a driver’s license either. Maybe she never picked up parcels.