James Bond, his stomach queasy from the BOAC version of 'An English Country House Breakfast', took his place stoically in a long queue that included plenty of squalling children and in due course said that he had spent the last ten nights in London. Then to Immigration—fifteen minutes to show his passport that said he was 'David Barlow, Merchant' and that he had eyes and hair and was six feet tall; and then to the Gehenna of the Idlewild Customs that has been carefully designed, in Bond's opinion, to give visitors to the United States coronary thrombosis. Everyone, each with his stupid little trolley, looked, after a night's flight, wretched and undignified. Waiting for his suitcase to appear behind the glass of the unloading bay and then to be graciously released for him to fight for and hump over to the customs lines, all of which were overloaded while each bag or bundle (why not a spot-check?) was opened and prodded and then laborously closed, often between slaps at fretting children, by its exhausted owner.
