Myself, I have to say I think the Japanese response is unimaginative. I love being sprayed. It is a perfect way to begin a journey or a holiday or a new life. It is a physical performance of an emotional requirement – the equivalent of a Turkish bath or a Finnish flagellation, but without the fuss or the pain. A purification. A little symbolical murder of the prior self.

Inside the tin shed that was the terminal they were more concerned with the extermination of the imported fruit fly than the prior self. As we queued to have our passports scrutinized we stood alongside a capacious green bin, gaily decorated with paintings of innocent-seeming apples and oranges and bananas. The bin represented one’s last, one’s absolutely final, opportunity to get rid of all the apples and oranges and bananas secreted about one’s person before they were spotted sticking out of one’s pockets by vigilant quarantine and customs men. ‘Why risk a fine of $50,000?’ the bin asked.

I don’t know why I decided to take such an interest in this receptacle. It might have been that the idea of a last-chance fruit depository appealed to something in my theology; or it might just have been inconsequentiality caused by jet-lag or the Montrose Chardonnay. Whatever the reason, I was no sooner through immigration than I wanted to be back out again, where the bin was. I wanted to be sure that I’d got the colour and dimensions right, and that the fine for smuggling in a cherry was indeed $50,000. I knew, of course, that I couldn’t really treat immigration as if it were a revolving door; but I didn’t think there would be any harm in my standing on tiptoe behind a passport officer’s back and jotting down some details in my notebook. It never crossed my mind that such action might look for all the world like espionage – pretty inept and footling espionage (what did they think I was after: the names and birthdays of the passengers I’d flown in with?) but espionage all the same. So I wasn’t prepared for the heavy hand that took me suddenly by the shoulder, or the rough inhospitable manner in which I was dispossessed of my notes.

I live in dread of having something taken from me. I am certain that I will fail of the indignation of outraged ownership. I am unable to imagine myself ever calling, ‘Stop, thief!’ But I did manage, on this occasion, to say, ‘Hey, that’s my notebook.’

My assailant flicked through it. I think the number of empty pages disconcerted him. That and the total illegibility of the pages that were full. My writing is so bad that it is often taken as shorthand or code.