Surrender in the battle of the bulge

THe young Customs woman beckoned me into the chamber. It was my turn to undergo a scan by one of those controversial X-ray machines; the ones that take away your dignity and show your inner workings and naughty bits. rumour has it that they can even detect your last meal! (‘enjoy your porridge this morning, Sir? A tad too much sugar, perhaps?’) With legs splayed and hands held high in position, I was ready to be zapped — if that is the correct terminology. ‘Anything in your pockets?’ she asked. I said: ‘Yes, my handkerchief,’ and showed it to her. Satisfied, she then waved me to get into position, so I pocketed it and raised my hands. ‘no, no, the handkerchief,’ she said. Confused, I once again showed it to her. Looking irritated, she gestured me to return. When she again spotted me putting my handkerchief back into my pocket, she and her colleague burst into fits of laughter. two Customs Officials laughing — now that must be a first! Just what was it about my handkerchief? It was an ordinary white one which my wife had given me that morning for our journey, in pristine condition and unsoiled, although not for long if this charade continued; soon it would be stained with my tears. At this point the penny dropped — it was my apparent bulge! So for the umpteenth time, I sheepishly raised my hands complete with handkerchief held high. In fact I did a full stretch of the hands into total surrender mode, for I was ready to give in and hoist a white flag if I had one. Perhaps I should use the handkerchief for that, but I feared such a gesture might have misfired. A quick zap and I was released from my torture chamber, my perpetrators’ laughter still ringing in my ears. On reflection I still cannot see what difference the position of my handkerchief made. It’s not as if it was lined with lead concealing a piece of Kryptonite! One consolation: the officials laughed at me before the X-ray, not after . . . now that would have been humiliating!

David H. Cox, Kidlington, Oxford.