I’ve just endured ten minutes of pure mental torture. For some reason, the word “barcode” was thrown into the whole “machine-readable passport” thing. After a short session of high-octane Googling, I’ve established that there are clearly various definitions of the word “barcode”.
To me, the word barcode conjurs up images of vertical black lines, some thick, some thin, with a row of numbers underneath. You can imagine the terror that was oozing through my veins as I flicked through the pages of my passport looking for a motif that matches this approximate description.
To the various governments of the world, barcode means two lines of chevrons, letters and numbers.
So I do get to go to New York after all. Hurrah. Fucking phew.
You may not hear from me again until next week. Unless you are Stuart or Krissa, in which case I shall see you tomorrow evening, or you are Jodi, in which case I shall see you on Wednesday morning, or you are Kate, in which case I shall see you on Wednesday afternoon.