There was a photo booth by the ticket office of Balham Underground Station; I used it once.

I would walk past, during my commuting days, and wondered if I’d ever venture in there to produce four photos of increasingly inane grins as if practicing for a gurning competition?  

I never did.

Would I go in there with a girl and taking loving photos?  No, I rarely talked to girls during my teenage years, let alone persuade any of them to spend time in a darkened, underground cubicle, with a protective veil.

The one time I entered this magical photographic world, was to provide photos for my first passport. 

I wore a maroon suit and matching maroon double Windsor knot tie.  If I’d have worn any more maroon, people would have mistaken me for a Bishop – or a giant plum.  

The photos which did appear surprised me I was allowed into Luton Airport, not to mention entrance onto the Balearic Island of Mallorca!

(They do say if you actually looked like your passport photo, you’re probably too ill to fly!)

I was very much aware that many of these booths were used by couples.  I, however, stood outside, for what seemed like a millennium, alone, waiting for my four photos to drop into the receptacle.  It simply shouted: “Billy No Mates”. 

It was like waiting for Godot or, more to the point, waiting for Godot’s passport photos.

And smile 😊