Welcome home...

I peered down the queue that eventually led to the Passport Control Desk at Stanstead Airport. In the distance, if I squinted, I could see grim little officials grinding through passenger documentation. It was 11:30pm and judging by their demeanour, they weren't getting paid overtime.

When we eventually arrived at the head of the queue a bitter looking librarian with foreboding features and abrupt manner looked down the length of her nose at our collection of mutli-national passports and rolled her eyes at the offending documents.

'Where is your paperwork', she launched into an interrogation. I felt like telling her that she was looking at it, but I could tell she was in no mood for banter. I offered up our letter from the home office that confirmed that we weren't illegal immigrants, fundamentalists, criminals....or French.

'No. I need to see your documentation', she barked at me. Virginnia took this as a signal to question her intelligence. 'If you don't have the correct documentation I won't let you in', responded the bitter one.

The Passport controller was in stark contrast to the jolly fat German official that joked with my children and waved us goodbye at Schoneveld airport. She tutted at us and scanned the length of the line behind us - the message was clear. She was threatening to send us to the end of the queue....and another hour to consider our position.

'I'm exercising my rights as a....', Virginnia tested the waters with a full frontal assault. 'I hope you are not telling me how to do my job m'aam', retorted the ogre behind the counter. It was a Mexican stand-off as my wife and the passport controller stared each other down. I tried to defuse the situation by apologising. They both turned and stared at me with that 'F#ck off' look.

We eventually cleared passport control, but Virginnia wanted to give her some customer feedback......full credit to her.

'Can I have your name please....'

'Why do you want my name?'

'It's for my documentation...'