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I'm one of those people who feel inexplicably guilty when being questioned by anyone in a uniform, even when I haven't done anything wrong - and in all likelihood, never will. It's probably the coward in me. It makes me a pushover when Girl-Guides are selling me cookies at the door. They know me by now, and only have to insist I buy six tons of Brownies and I'm writing a cheque.

Anyway, a wonderful thing happened as I was being questioned, fingerprinted, cross-checked and photographed prior to entry at JFK yesterday. The immigration officer was a steely-eyed mega-serious woman of perhaps forty with a name tag that read 'Flint', which I wasn't sure referred to her name, or her demeanour. She asked the purpose of my visit and I gabbled:

"I'm an author. I write books. I'm on tour. Yes, that's it. An author .... on a book tour."

She stops what she's doing and fixes me with her grey eyes, which seem to bore into me like cork screws.