Well I finally have an Ontario driver's license. It took 5 visits to the mis-named 'Service Ontario' in the basement of a tall shiny building at Bay and College to obtain it. Visit number one hardly counts; I just popped in on the off-chance that they could help me out then and there. 'No' was the answer, but the woman at the counter helpfully told me their hours: 8 am to 7 pm.
Thus, visit number two, planned with husband, 3 days later, at 6 pm, leaving children in care of grandparents. Again, no luck; the gates of Temple Service Ontario temple were firmly closed, except to cleaning staff glimpsed within. It turns out the extended hours offered me by the nice lady at visit number one only apply certain days. (However, hubby and I did find a pleasant outdoor cafe on campus where we indulged in an impromptu date. Silver linings, etc.)
Visit number three occurred some days later, with children safely in school, many documents in hand, reading matter at the ready, down down down into the basement we marched again, to join a snaking queue for tickets. After answering the receptionist's questions to ascertain that we had everything necessary, we were granted numbered slips of paper and launched into a 2 hour wait. Finally, M24 flashed on the screen and we approached the hallowed counter, only for our hopes to be dashed yet again, as we had not brought the paper 'counterpart' to our UK photo card licenses. This was a calculated risk as husband has not yet located the counterpart to his own license though I knew where mine was. I didn't bring it though out of (misguided?) solidarity and because the intelligence we garnered suggested it wasn't necessary. Ha. Still we indulged in some irate tut-tutting that the receptionist had not specified this in her checklist of necessary items before we waited the two hours.
Visit number four occurred later that day, me on my own, but was again to no avail, as I missed their opening hours. It was a short day. That time, my bad, I own up. At least I was no longer making the trip on foot but by bicycle, so less time was being lost.
Visit number five, again by bike, again on my own, and with only an hour of waiting, I took my place at the altar of a Service Ontario counter. (This visit, by the way, the receptionist took care to ask 'Do you have the two-part license?', before issuing me a numbered ticket, so perhaps the fuss we kicked up at visit number 3 paid off.) Hallelujah! I got a bit worried when the clerk, being helpful as I tried to answer the question 'When did you first get a driving licence?' told me that I had turned 16 in 1985. 'No, in 1975', I replied. 'No, '85,' he insisted. I assured him my authority on this matter was good http://www.blogger.com/and he checked his computer screen carefully for the birthdate he had copied from my passport. 'Oh, yes, you're right,' he told me. Nice to know, and I departed the basement of hell before they began charging me rent, my fistful of official papers in hand.
Only when I got home and conducted a more careful examination of the paperwork issued to me did I discover the awful truth: the dude got my birthdate wrong after all. I'm nine years and 257 days younger than I was, in the eyes of Service Ontario. Which explains why I now write words like 'dude'.
I have a dreadful feeling that visit number six looms in my future.
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