It is ironic that in this day and age, it is easier for someone to steal my identity than it is for me to prove who I am! Granted, I have had a few marriages in the past, (and of course, a few different surnames that went with them). but the DBS certificate (Disclosure and Barring Check) came back the next day and I had to declare all of my names on that (nothing screams master criminal than a load of different names, but I sailed through the checks)!

Nowadays, when applying for a job, it is not enough to pass the interview and prove your qualifications, you also have to prove who you are. (I pity the poor sod that would want my identity). I had gone prepared to the interview with originals and photocopies (all neatly compiled in a folder for the interviewer to keep) of birth certificate, driving licence and proof of my Royal College of Nursing membership as proof.

All well and good, Later on that evening  I had to scan and fax a utility bill for more proof of address; did that, e-mailed over Council Tax bill. Nope, still not good enough.They needed a bank  statement which was tricky as mine are online and they did not want one downloaded from the internet! I managed to obtain one and thought that was it.

Heard nothing for a while. In fact waited 2 weeks. I phoned to see what the hold up was as the 2nd referee had sent hers in and that was the last thing they were waiting for. They neglected to tell me that I could not get my start date until I proved my ID! I thought I had.

No, they wanted a marriage certificate of my current surname. Fine, I sent it over. Nothing for another few days. I phoned again. “Why was it not your maiden name on the marriage certificate? ”  Grrr, that might be because I was married to Miss Hap’s dad at that time and had his surname. I told them I would send over copy divorce papers, which I did.

They phoned me yesterday. Now they need a marriage certificate from 14 years ago to Miss Hap’s dad to prove the change of name from maiden to his (Thank Christ I reverted back to maiden name after 1st divorce!

Now I felt pretty grotty yesterday, my head was banging and I was boiling hot and sweating (still from this bloody virus). I searched high and low, all through the files I kept paperwork, nothing! I was sure I had a copy but could not think where it was. I phoned Mr Grump who was at Mum’s having a few drinks with my sisters and brother-in-law who said to ring up and get a copy.

I phoned up, and to cut a long story short, can’t get one till Tuesday night. Great, a bloody fraudster would have had one emailed to the new job in less than an hour! That is not the end of the story, though.

Mr Grump came back later on in the evening a little worse for wear, and wobbly on his feet. I decided that then was a good time to vent my anger and frustration that I couldn’t find the copy of the certificate, and felt sorry for myself because I felt ill.

That was it. He charged up the stairs, grabbed the stepladder and was set on going into the loft where I had mentioned it could be. By this time he had got changed in was only wearing boxers and a tie-belt dressing gown, not the best attire for clambering about in the loft. I told him not to go up there, but he was determined (probably to shut me up)!

I looked through the fingers of my hand across my eyes as he stomped up the ladder, rocking it as he went. I grabbed hold of it as he got to the top, and held my breath as he heaved himself up through the opening. I felt dizzy as he was wavering for a bit, and I envisioned him plummeting down, over the bannister and down the stairs. Not a scene I wanted on a Friday night. I had already clouted my little toe on the wardrobe earlier and was hobbling, so did not fancy the delights of A&E.

After squashing my Christmas tree in its box by the opening, he finally made it into the loft, and some banging and crashing ensued. He asked me about five times what he was looking for and I told him with increasing rage. He  then mentioned that he found a bag of paperwork, so I asked him to hand it down. He did not hear me properly and a loud BANG signalled the bag dropping like a stone, scattering its contents willy nilly on the landing and stairs.It wasn’t paperwork. It was a bag of crafts, all little bits and pieces. Quite a lot of bits and pieces actually.

That made me mad so I had another fit of yelling, which annoyed him so he muttered to himself about how ungrateful I was, whilst deciding that actually sleeping in the loft would be preferable to me moaning at him all night! He had forgotten what he was looking for again, and I managed to coax him down empty-handed.

Does anyone know a good counterfeiter?!!!!!!