Trámites is a wonderful Spanish word, one of the first I learnt when I moved to Uruguay. It means stuff that needs to be done – boring paperwork, red-tape procedures, that sort of thing. And I can’t find a precise translation in English, or, more to the point, in French. My life seems to be one big trámite at the moment.

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And I must say, I have nothing against trámites. I can understand that they exist to protect me. No local person has any problem with them. It’s just that when you don’t quite fit in a labelled box, they can get a bit complicated.

Let me explain. About six years ago, my Belgian driving licence was stolen in Tanzania. I had a copy of it, and a police report, and so next time I was in Belgium I went to the local commune where I had last lived (which had issued the licence in the first place) and asked for a copy.

‘No problem, madame, can I see your carte de séjour?’ Well, unfortunately I didn’t have the resident’s permit they required any more; I’d had to give it up when we moved to Tanzania, because I was no longer resident in Belgium. Plead as I may, there was no way the nice policeman was going to give me a duplicate of my licence (which I had obtained by taking lessons and a really hard test when I was thirty-five and suddenly realised that my original licence, obtained in Tanzania when I was seventeen, was not valid in Belgium).

Anyway, in Tanzania I had a Tanzanian licence, and in Uruguay I managed to wangle a Uruguayan one, only valid for the duration of my stay there. So just before I left I got an international one. Which expires in four hours’ time.

Well, I’m a Belgian resident now (aren’t I?). So surely I can get my Belgian licence back? I mean the policeman at the commune showed me the file: he has the number, my photo, the date, EVERYTHING! But I need a carte de séjour. I was told it would take five weeks to issue. Fine. Off I went to get passport photos taken, and a copy of my passport just in case … but wait for this … today I learnt that to get my resident’s permit I need a copy of … my marriage certificate.

Now I know exactly where the marriage certificate is (in a file called ‘Important Documents’ along with my primary school reports and NLP Practitioner certificate and Bronze Medal swimming certificate and St. John’s Ambulance certificate and a long-deceased dog’s pedigree certificate… Box number 83, I believe, to be loaded onto a ship in Uruguay in about a week’s time.) Don't suggest I get a duplicata: we were married in Tanzania thirty years ago, and I don't think that trámite would be particularly simple.

My husband seems to think there may be a copy in the safe in the bank (along with the silver dish Miss Hamill left us when she died). I can just about remember the code to get into that safe … but where is the key? There, I have to confess, I have absolutely no recollection of having seen that key in the last eight years. Will it be in a box? It certainly is not with us now.

So here I am, with a gorgeous new car (well, the car will be handed to us once the number plate is on it, and that can only be done with a carte de séjour), and no way of driving it (after midnight tonight).