“That’s not on our list of Permissible Visual Cognitive Imagings,” he said, or something similarly vacuous.”I’m sure it isn’t, but it’s still me. It couldn’t be more me.” I lowered my voice and leant closer to him. “Are you seriously suggesting that I had this book specially printed so I could sneak on to a flight to Buffalo?”He stared hard at me for another minute, then called in another clerk for consultation They conferred and summoned a third party. Finally it occurred to me that I had a copy of one of my own books with my picture on the jacket. I had all kinds of identification – library card, credit cards, Social Security card, health insurance card, airline ticket – all with my name on them, but I had nothing that included any photograph.Eventually, at the back of the wallet, I found an old Iowa driver’s licence that I had forgotten I even had.”This is expired,” he sniffed.”Then I won’t ask to drive the plane,” I replied.”Anyway, it’s 15 years old I need something more up to date,” he said I sighed, and rooted through my belongings.

The first I heard of this was when I showed up to catch a plane at an airport 120 miles from my home.”I need to see some picture ID,” said the clerk, who had the charm and boundless motivation you would expect to find in someone whose primary employment perk is a nylon tie.”Really? I don’t think I have any,” I said and began patting my pockets, as if that would make a difference, and then pulling cards from my wallet. Our local public swimming-pool, for example, has 27 posted rules – 27! – of which my favourite is “Only One Bounce Per Dive on Diving Board”. And they are enforced.What is frustrating – no, maddening – is that it almost never matters whether these rules make any sense or not. A year or so ago, as a way of dealing with the increased threat of terrorism, America’s airlines began requiring passengers to present photographic identification when checking in for a flight. I had, in effect, queue- jumped the “Wait to Be Seated” sign.I expect it may be something to do with our Germanic stock On the whole I have no quibble with that. There are times, I have to say, when a little Teutonic order would not go amiss in England – such as the occasions when people take two spaces in a car park (the one offence for which, if I may speak freely here, I would welcome back capital punishment).Sometimes, however, the American devotion to order goes too far.

They behave towards rules in much the way the British behave towards queues – as something fundamental to the maintenance of a civilised and orderly society. I have seen the sign from every angle but supine.”Is there a sign?” I said innocently “Gosh, I didn’t notice it.” She sighed. “Well, the server in this section is very busy, so you may have to wait some time for her to get to you,” she said.There was no other customer within 50 feet, but that was not the point.The point was that I had disregarded a posted notice and would have to serve a small sentence in purgatory in consequence.It would be entirely wrong to say that Americans love rules, but they have a certain regard for them. After a couple of minutes the hostess – the Customer Seating Manager – came up to me and said in a level tone: “I see you’ve seated yourself.” “Yup,” I replied proudly.