But I felt uncomfortable. A woman patiently joined the back of the queue with two little infants, feeding both of them simultaneously, “Macedonian-style.” Admittedly, after a while she was sent to a short queue for those who didn’t have to stand in line with everyone else. There were children and old people standing in front of me too. But there was nothing to be done—we’d arrived at a bad moment, and for Europe the endangered species of Russians is made up of the same kind of suspect “third-world” folk as the denizens of any overpopulated Asian country. Maybe even more suspect—although Russia might have accepted its role as a third-world country, but from time to time it still demonstrates certain ambitions and is reluctant to acknowledge its colonial status openly.

Anyway, positively overflowing with noble feelings, I decided to wait out the queue together with my compatriots. And for the first half-hour I felt genuinely proud of the way I was acting.

I held out for a second half-hour from sheer stubbornness, realizing that to pronounce a spell and bypass passport control now would be as good as admitting my own stupidity.

No special questions arose when my turn came. The officer, who was a Sikh to judge from his turban, glanced at the visa, asked how long I had come to Britain for, was told that it was two or three days, nodded, and slapped his stamp down on my passport.

I passed through the checkpoint manned by a Dark Other and a Light Other without any delay at all—my Higher Other aura inspired respect.

I felt so worn out after the queue that I didn’t take the express train, even though it went to Paddington, which would have been very convenient for me. I walked out of the airport terminal and turned left, towards the spot where smokers were ruining their health at an appropriate distance from decent people. A little glass isolation cell had been set up outside for the victims of nicotine dependence. But the exhausted passengers and uniformed airport workers still disregarded the rules and smoked in the open air.

I lit up too. Beside me a beautiful young miss with long legs and an expensive aluminium suitcase was slavering over a thin cigarette and swearing on the phone at someone called Peter, who hadn’t arrived in time to meet her. The girl happened to be Russian, but she was speaking English and swearing like a real virtuoso. When she finished talking she shook her head helplessly, then immediately phoned Moscow and started discussing the difference in mentality between Russian and English men with a girlfriend.

I chuckled and set off towards the taxi stand. A long line of tall cabs, including some antiques and some ultra-modern specimens, was waiting patiently for customers.