Here I am again at border control, as a lady with epaulettes, savagely bleached hair and a large peaked cap glares at me and then at my passport. Then she glares at me again. Then she looks in the angled mirror behind me, to check on the back of my head. I do not know why this is important. Perhaps she wants to make sure I am not wearing a wig. That mirror is always there, at every border crossing in every despotism in all the world. I just happen to have walked into this one, whichever it might be.
- From Short Breaks in Mordor: Dawns and Departuresa of a Scribbler's Life by Peter Hitchens