Suitcase race

W

e've all been there as we approach the checkouts in the supermarket. The big decision. Which queue to join? Time might not be pressing, but it just matters.

We assess the size of the trolleys. The expected speed of the shoppers at packing and paying. Even the competence of the checkout assistants.

We watch the person who joined another line at the same time, to see if we picked well.

So there I was in the airport. Fifteen different queues for the passport and visa check. A familiar situation. I am supermarket-trained. I can do this, I thought.

This one, I decide. I wait in line, smug in the knowledge it was the shortest. I'm not alone. Another passenger picks the same one a moment later. As we progress, out of the corner of my eye, I see a suitcase edging its way past me. Slowly.

An inch at a time. A sort of soft shoe shuffling suitcase. I check again. It's getting ahead of me. Its owner pretends to gaze elsewhere, seemingly ignorant of the takeover bid for my place in the queue.

I edge to the right to block its progress at the barrier. Success. Then, out of the corner of my other eye, I see the suitcase making a cunning detour. It has switched to my left. And picked up speed.

We are nearing the checkpoint. It is a battle of wills. It was no contest. I won. After all, I'm British. We know how to queue.

“I wait in line, smug in the knowledge that it was the shortest