So, I’ve been standing in a queue outside the American Embassy for the past 45 minutes, and I’m freezing, and there are thirty people ahead of me in the queue. I’ve already successfully passed through the first check point where the guard makes a joke about how the service I require is not available today, ha ha, only kidding. I cannot joke, however, because they might point a gun at my head and lead me to a special room where they do the strip search and stick rubber clad fingers up my bum. Those of us who are not in power are no longer free to joke.

I’m bored. Should I listen to my ipod? No. Someone might think it’s a terrorist device or a recording device or a communications device, or they might not like my taste in music and take me to the special room. Maybe I should just read the paper I brought with me. But, it’s the Guardian. Maybe someone will think it’s too liberal. I’m afraid to text or phone. But, don’t I have the right to call my toy boy and complain about how I have to wait in this stupid queue? I’m American, for God’s sake. We love complaining.

When I pass the second check point, that guard also makes a joke. “Is this really you?” he says as he scrutinizes my passport photo. He’s flirting. I want to be a smart ass. I want to say “no, it’s my granny.” But, if he is offended by my joke, I might not get inside the Embassy today. He has all the power. So, I giggle coquettishly and give him my big “I am not a terrorist” smile.

They don’t joke at the next check point. But they take my mobile phone and my CD player, I walk through a metal detector, and they inspect the heels of my shoes. I’m inside the Embassy now, wa-hey, let freedom ring. I wait 45 minutes with my number for them to tell me that they cannot do the first bit I need done. I wait another 45 minutes while they do the second bit. Sod it. I’m reading the Guardian, and I don’t care what anybody says.

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