Kayt Turner: ‘The number of lines on my face isn’t the only thing that’s increased in the past ten years’

MY, HOW time flies when you’re having fun. Can it really be ten years since I last submitted myself to the tortuous experience of having my passport picture taken?

I’ve put it off for as long as I can and have now left myself a whole two days in which to get the entire process done and dusted. Taking a deep breath, I tell myself that it’s like ripping a plaster off – the sooner and quicker it’s done, the less painful it will be.

Mr Turner and I have hedged and havered and kidded ourselves that we don’t really need new pictures. We’re not exactly unmarked by time, but we both reckoned we hadn’t changed all that much in the intervening years. We could surely get away with sending in the same pictures, yes? It was a delusion we clung to until last weekend when I went to pick Mr Turner up from the airport. When he came through passport control, the woman took one look at his picture and snorted, “This wisnae taken yesterday, was it?” That winged chariot left plenty of tyre tracks over both our faces.

So I am dispatched to the photo booth at our local Tesco. My initial thoughts are that most people will be looking at this picture – and me – in airports in (probably) god-forsaken parts of the world at god-forsaken times of the day. Am I likely to be fully made up and have my hair done? Sense tells me that, in order to have a passport picture that actually looks like me, I should have the snaps done first thing in the morning when I have no make-up on and my hair is scraped back. Either that or stop by the make-up counters before check-in each and every time I fly.

However, this picture will have to be on my new driving licence as well, as it’s also up for renewal, so I think I’ll err on the side of glam rather than reality. Once I’ve caked on enough slap to keep a MAC concession in business for a year, and teased my lank locks up and out from their normal, err, style – I trip across the road.

The staff – who are somewhat more used to the bag-lady look I normally sport – are a little bewildered.

The number of lines on my face isn’t the only thing that’s increased in the past ten years. Whereas I got my pictures for £2.50 a decade ago, it’s now a fiver. A fiver?!! The curtain may provide a modicum of privacy, but it’s not, unfortunately, soundproofed. Anyway, I put my five quid in and try to compose my face. I know you’re not meant to smile – but given that my natural expression is somewhat torn faced, I thought it best to at least try and straighten my mouth.

I stare at the point in the distance and ... and... is this thing even worki..? I know, I know. I’m Scottish – if we can’t learn from the Baldie Man, who can? At least these days you get a few attempts before your final pictures are done. So I try again. And sneeze. My final attempt. I hold my mouth straight, try not to let the lines around my eyes look too crinkly, or my chin too flabby, or the bags under my eyes too big.

The resulting image – with my staring eyes, strained neck and rictus visage resembles nothing so much as a psycho axe murderer. Some may say that’s a pretty realistic representation – I say, has anyone got some more change?