I left my luggage trolley for a moment, to buy stamps for thank yous to send to hosts with big hearts. The aisles of WHSmith threatened the width of my bags, filled with engine-parts for landrovers in Africa. In stamp-buying time (queue less, note), there he was, his black-vest a hard-shell, like the coat of a cockroach protecting its dirt. Gun, helmet, badge and radio.
‘Are these your bags madam?’
A cold-hand grips my warm-heart and I fear authorities who fear terrorists: there is no logic where panic burns up sense like fire on oil. But I know this game and I play it well and sweet innocence works like a power tool against men in armour who carry guns against terror.
‘Are you going to shout at me?’ I ask with a smile. ‘I was buying chocolate for my Dad. He likes the fruit and nut, you see. He’s convinced every bar belongs to him.’ I sell out to manipulation: woman's greatest weapon?
I show him the purple wrappers. A smile in return and I’ve won.
He laughs and jokes and warns me – officially, he says. He has to. I get a copy of the warning for future reference (it is not a record, I am told. I am assured I do not have a record for buying stamps.).
‘Are these your bags madam?’
A cold-hand grips my warm-heart and I fear authorities who fear terrorists: there is no logic where panic burns up sense like fire on oil. But I know this game and I play it well and sweet innocence works like a power tool against men in armour who carry guns against terror.
‘Are you going to shout at me?’ I ask with a smile. ‘I was buying chocolate for my Dad. He likes the fruit and nut, you see. He’s convinced every bar belongs to him.’ I sell out to manipulation: woman's greatest weapon?
I show him the purple wrappers. A smile in return and I’ve won.
He laughs and jokes and warns me – officially, he says. He has to. I get a copy of the warning for future reference (it is not a record, I am told. I am assured I do not have a record for buying stamps.).
Seen outside WHSmith Terminal 4. Trolley unattended. Words of advice.
I am asked to identify the colour of my skin: I'm offered lists of PC terms for shades of tone and heritage and I tick the appropriate box: there’s a double meaning in that. We all know that sniffer dogs at airports are trained to target colour. He ticks the Stop Only box, as opposed to Search, or Arrest and the Outcome Code I am given is ‘2’ for Advised.
1 for No Further Action; 3 for Verbal Warning; 4 for Arrested; 5 for Other.
But I am not Other, where Other is Colour, and I know this and use it, despite my conscience. I chat on and he does too. He asks me where I am going, I tell him the details. He supports a child in Ethiopia through my employers. The irony is laughable. I say I must go – I need to check in. He says nice people like me shouldn’t be forgotten and writes down his details. He is PC 674D with the Met Police. Should I ever need any help, I should feel free to contact him. I do. I smile.
I walk away, knowing my soul will need forgiveness for its manipulative ways. I fold my copy of the report behind my passport, irony bleeding through the paper-white sheets. Terrorism, it reads. Help us defeat it.
