Perk Pye

porkpie-007

 

There is noth […]

There is nothing to be […]

Sir! Sir! Please- Sir! […]

It’s nothing, what is wro… […]

Please, sir, just… […]

In interrogation room 6, which they had oddly named ‘Willow’, they spilled my beans. Sorry, I mean my bag. I mean, they spilled the contents of my bag. They spilled it across the table that sat on four legs in between me and these two, border agents? No, that sounds very American. Border guards? Hm, it has a touch of the British obsession with the monocle, sorry, monarchical, but still, not right. Or is it? Between me and these two border folk. Better? It’ll do. On the table was now the contents of my bag. A rucksack to be clearer. More precise. Or is it a backpack? Isn’t that American too? I’ll stick to travel bag. The contents of my travel bag were as following: a small 100ml travel tube of Savlon (I know the rules about liquids and flying, don’t I?!), two Pentel pens (one Fine Point R50 in a green casing and one Ultra Fine S570 in an orange casing), a copy of Emile Zola’s Germinal (which I had and have never read in its entirety), and a small mound wrapped in a wrinkly blue paper. At the sight of this object, they both, the two in front of me, jumped up and out of their seats and thus so did I, and as I did they stopped their jumping and looked at me as if to say that that motion was their responsibility not mine. They both then started yelling into their nipples, or at least their breasts, and I could not fathom what purpose this solved. Or should that be served? I think they both had walkie-talkies (American?) mounted on their chests. I found this odd but didn’t mention it. They were calling for back up.

Sir […]

I don’t see wh… […]

Please sir j… […]

It’s only a… […]

Four more border folk appeared in Willow making huffing noises. None of them had touched me yet but they all looked like they wanted to. I wouldn’t have minded, it may have made the whole thing feel a little bit more real. I’d arrived at the airport about 2 hours before this event, prior to this event, feeling lethargic. I found flying profoundly dull; it was full of sitting around in confined spaces with strangers who were usually coughing or talking loudly, the air always stale and dense. To make the procedure slightly more bearable, I always pretend that I am a really important person and sit with my legs crossed like I am someone with somewhere to go. I ask questions everywhere I go (the toilet, duty free) in the airport to suggest I had a need to know the answers to pertinent questions and the answers JUST COULD NOT WAIT. On more than one occasion, I had made loud phone calls inquiring whether the car was coming to collect me and complaining that my ticket wasn’t first class. Airports are merely shopping malls (definitely American), centres, where you have no escape. Whereas in shopping centres (not malls) in the real world, you can run out and through an industrial estate and jump onto a motorway, here (I’m not in an airport as I write this), at the airport (I’m not there right now), you’re not even allowed outside to smoke. Not that I smoked. I liked the idea of it. Particularly roll ups. I loved the process, the apparatus, just not the result. I imagine I’d look purposeful with a cigarette tucked behind my ear, always  on the edge of ejecting myself from a situation to go outside and smoke it. It would give me verve or something resembling verve.

I can just unwr… […]

NO […]

You’ll see what I… […]

Put your hands… […]

I slid a nail underneath a fold in the the wrinkled blue paper, they had not been cut for some time- my nails, not the paper but I suppose I did not know whether the paper had been cut recently because it came already cut when I bought it; as their fingers quivered on their triggers. I’d never had a gun pointed at me, well, nothing beyond a glue gun at least, and for some reason it did not frighten me as I always thought it would (did I ever really think about this?). I didn’t really know what to do or where to put my hands so I left them where they were (on the table in a pile), as I was resolute in my desire to  just explain to them calmly and rationally what was so evident to me, as I hadn’t as of yet, had the chance to explain myself. They just kept interrupting. But now it was clear- to them and to me. Naked. In all its brown and crumbly glory. I was suddenly very ashamed. But why should I have been?

Is it the […] is it the gelatin that you don’t like? Or, or or […] the processed meat?

Sir […] you alluded to this this this package […] being an explosive object […]

Only yeah yeah yeah only in the wrong hands […]

Your passport […] it shows you had been to Mogadishu […]

 

I laughed at this point. The bureaucratic slip of sense.

 

Ha! You’ve obviously got me muddled [..] ha mmmmuddled with someone else […] I’ve only been as far as […] huk huk huk YEP! […] as far as Melton Mowbray […]

 

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