I’VE picked the yellow lane. The one with the grumpy processing officer who looks like she’s sucking lemons. I’ve not got a passport. Just my name – only, due to a mix-up with tickets, the name I must give is not my name. I give the name I must give to get through. My yellow-lane officer barks the question. In the booth next door, the blue-lane processing officer asks it kindly, a softness to her tone.
I’m in the presence of threat, anger.
