Lost and Found

I needed my birth certificate for my police check. They, understandably, won't let us go on teaching pracs without having one completed. Only trouble was I was pretty sure I'd lost it.
Years ago Dad gave me an old leather document case to keep important papers in. It has a little card upon which is printed a 1966 calendar. The year Australia converted to decimal currency. He'd also added a tiny black and white hospital birth photo of me, or maybe a monkey, we're none of us oil paintings. That was a pretty emotionally charged thing for him to do, he not being big on bonding moments.
For instance; our one and only sex talk took place one Saturday while driving to Clarendon to buy pies for lunch:
'You going to that party tonight?'
'Yep.'
'You'll be careful won't you.'
'Yeh. I won't drink and drive.'
'That's not what I meant.'
'Oh. Right. Yep, I'll be careful.'
'Good.'

Anyway, I thought I had my BC in this case, with the photo and the calendar. But the last few times I'd looked through it I could only find a rejection letter from Duntroon, an incomplete UK tax return, a transcript from my failed year at Flinders Uni (straight out of high school), and my school leaver's certificate with the blistering personal attack penned by my chemistry teacher, Mr Ralston, for failing to develop my, apparently, God given chemistry skills.
Yes, I've constructed my own little psychological torture chamber, all cased in leather.
Anyway, desperation made me have one last look tonight. There it was, right near the top. In an envlelope. With my name on it.
I really should throw the other stuff out. if I can bear to open it again.