‘English? Française? Deut—‘
‘Remove your belt, madam.’
Madam! I’m twenty five! I remove my belt, an intimate gesture in a crowded place.
Shit! My toe appears, in all its cracked nail polish glory.
‘Pass through the detector again, please.’
I hobble on dirty floor holding my trousers up, my toe hanging out and my face a red burning furnace.
The detector beeps its objections.
‘Spread your arms.’
I stifle a laugh.
‘Ticklish,’ I explain apologetically.
More beeps around my hip.
‘It’s a pin, I had an operation.’
‘Step through here please.’
The gloves come on.