They had conversed in a language that had baffled me. This didn’t worry me too much since I wouldn’t have been any the wiser had they spoken in English, at least not if they’d used what appeared to be the local version of that language.

The officer suddenly asked if I’d brought any whisky into the country. At least that’s what my poor confused ears told me he’d said. The only intelligible word in the whole sentence had been ‘whisky’.

The excitement and all the rushing about at Heathrow had conspired to make me forget to purchase any duty-free items whatsoever; therefore, my negative reply and shaking head had disappointed the officer. More strange words were exchanged with the porter and this convinced me they were working some kind of racket between them. Not being sure of the exact nature of the arrangement, my suspicious mind told me that at some stage during his normal duties, the porter was somehow instrumental in assisting the customs officer to identify those travellers with duty-free goods and spirits. Cynically, I guessed that some excuse would then be found to confiscate the booty from the poor unsuspecting traveller.

When the officer had marked my bags with chalk, the porter whisked them off the bench and headed for the exit beyond the health check desk.

The sweat rolled off me in buckets and my clothes felt like heavy, damp, uncomfortable rags hanging limply about my body. The conviction my belongings would be lost forever should I lose sight of the porter, forced me to run after him like a man possessed. Quite naturally, this hectic activity only added to my personal discomfort.

The health document check was carried out in a perfunctory manner and didn’t delay me for more than a few minutes. However, some few yards further on, my progress was halted close to the exit by some temporary steel barriers and a policeman armed with a Lee-Enfield rifle. To my utter dismay, the porter had been let through and was now well out of sight.