The most fearsome creature on earth: a white South African with a rubber stamp.

South Africa House has seen many, many protests, and it was the scene of much turmoil this morning. I spent one-and-a-half hours in a queue there today, witnessing petty bureaucrats taking great glee in dashing the hopes of the desperate. There's something about a South African bureaucrat that makes him worse than any other kind.

My brother and his South African girlfriend had a baby four months ago. For reasons I can't claim to understand, the baby has to be South African, even though he was born in England and has an English father. They hadn't yet registered him, but they received some distressing news this week: her father back in SA is very ill and if they want to see him, they'd better hurry back.

The baby therefore needs a temporary passport. You'd think they would be able to request the necessary forms by phone, but oh no - you have to send a self-addressed envelope or pick them up in person from the South African High Commission. That's where I came in.

You'd think, too, that you'd just be able to pop in and pick the forms up, or that the underworked receptionist would have a stack of them, but oh no - you have to join the queues of people renewing their passports, applying for visas, work permits, etc.

When I left South Africa seven years ago, I hoped I'd never again have to hear "Where's your ID book?" But hear it I did, again and again, and a multitude of excuses: "But the lady on the phone said I wouldn't need it", "But I've never needed it before", "But this is the fourth time I've been here this week", "But you didn't tell me the photos had to be identical".

I finally made it to the front of the queue and explained I needed to pick up some forms for my brother. "Where's your ID book?" I explained, again, that the forms weren't for me, but For. My. Brother. "When are they planning to leave? How long are they planning to stay? Have they got a letter from her father's doctor?" I don't know. They're for my brother. "You'll have to get a letter from their doctor." No. Give me the forms for my brother.

I stuck to my guns, and the forms were eventually handed over. I called my brother to tell him I was sending them special delivery. "Oh, that's OK," he said, "her father's better; we're not going now. I meant to call you last night."