With that and the TV appeals, I never stood a chance. I found out later that my picture had been circulated in every major port from Aberdeen to Plymouth. He signalled for me to wait and spoke into his walkie-talkie, rapidly and with obvious agitation. The graveyard shift–dreary dull from dusk till dawn–and for a few heartbeats it seemed that the customs officer lacked the willpower necessary to rotate his eyeballs and check my credentials. His weight rested on his elbows, his chin was cupped in his hands, and, but for this crude arrangement of scaffolding, his whole body looked ready to fall like a sack of potatoes to the floor. I’d rolled Mr Peterson’s car up to the booth in the ‘Nothing to Declare’ lane, where a single customs officer was on duty. You know: before anyone else had to get involved. It would have been nice to have been able to explain things to my mother. Having come this far, I’d started to think that I might make it the whole way home after all. It’s funny how some things can be so mixed up like that. I was half expecting it, but it still came as kind of a shock when the barrier stayed down. They finally stopped me at Dover as I was trying to get back into the country.
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