My passport is feeling lonely. It hasn't been used this week, which is a rare treat.
I like my passport, and hate it when it's time for a change. At the moment I have two, which is always good for a laugh. Both have shocking photo's.
The older of the two is getting decidedly dogeared now. But she's still got another three years to go - I hope she makes it! She's currently looking lovely in a Mont Blanc calfskin cover - but underneath she's quite ropey.
My passports have been on some adventures over the years - left behind in Holland (I realised this when I found myself passportless in Switzerland, three countries later); confiscated in Jerusalem by an employer who feared I'd run off with the takings; examined to within an inch of it's life on the Chinese / Mongolian border and stolen (only to be recovered later - it was a joke, apparently) by Touareg tribesman in Timbuktu.
In their various forms they've been waved in the faces of border guards from countless countries and never questioned (apart from in Havana, where the officer went for a second and, worryingly, a third opinion).
They've seen me subjected to a rather nasty body cavity search in Haifa and been with me as I skipped across the Rafa border crossing from Gaza to Egypt (yes, the one that they recently knocked a whacking great hole through).
It's not surprising that they tend to wear out before their tenure is up.
So tomorrow, my passport is coming out again as we head together to the land of spices, temples and exotic locals.
We're heading east.
E14 to be precise, Isle of Dogs.