Terrorism In Sandals

(I have to change flights at short notice as a meeting ran on longer than expected, so instead of the Romanian national airline I have to use the substandard British one. I discover I am sharing the plane with a tour party of elderly — even older than me — compatriots of mine who are highly prone to complaining. After standing in line for an age to check in my luggage, and then for another age to get through security, I then find myself in another line for the passport check. This is no big deal. It’s what you expect when flying out of Bucharest; you have to allow plenty of time. The two old women behind me in the queue are getting tetchy and impatient.)

Old Woman: “I wish they’d hurry up. This is intolerable.”

Me: “Oh, I don’t know; it’s moving pretty smoothly today. It can take far longer than this.”

(She looks me up and down with a sneer on her face, taking in my open sandals, army-style combat jacket, and Comrade Corbyn hat.)

Old Woman: *in a loud voice* “Well, if only you didn’t dress as a terrorist, maybe the line would move faster!”

Me: “Thank you for that. A bit louder next time; they may not have heard you in Hungary.”