![]() ![]() ![]() What I remember next is kind of muddled and strange, but I'll try to describe it for you as best I can. With that and the TV appeals, I never stood a chance. I found out later that my picture had been circulated in every major port from Aberdeen to Plymouth. He signalled for me to wait and spoke into his walkie-talkie, rapidly and with obvious agitation. The graveyard shift–dreary dull from dusk till dawn–and for a few heartbeats it seemed that the customs officer lacked the willpower necessary to rotate his eyeballs and check my credentials. ![]() His weight rested on his elbows, his chin was cupped in his hands, and, but for this crude arrangement of scaffolding, his whole body looked ready to fall like a sack of potatoes to the floor. I'd rolled Mr Peterson's car up to the booth in the 'Nothing to Declare' lane, where a single customs officer was on duty. You know: before anyone else had to get involved. It would have been nice to have been able to explain things to my mother. ![]() Having come this far, I'd started to think that I might make it the whole way home after all. It's funny how some things can be so mixed up like that. I was half expecting it, but it still came as kind of a shock when the barrier stayed down. They finally stopped me at Dover as I was trying to get back into the country. ![]()
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