OK, CATSA, all is forgiven.

I know I’ve complained about you in the past. But you’re the very soul of restraint compared to the folks at Heathrow in London, UK.

Let’s just say that the latter should at least kiss you first—and offer you an engagement ring afterward. It’s the only honourable thing to do.

I set off the little buzzer by neglecting to remove my watch, and the reading glasses in my shirt pocket. Foolish of me.

I haven’t had a pat-down like that since I was married. About half-way through the fellow’s quasi-amorous explorations, I asked, “Don’t you guys have wands?”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “But this is enhanced security, sir.” A colleague of his moved forward with a wand, but didn’t use it, which, come to think of it, may have been just as well.

“I assure you, sir,” said my new friend, “that I take these same measures with everyone.” Slut. I saw the impatient line behind me, and felt for them, as it were.

He wasn’t finished yet. He fished through my wallet, and then wheeled out a bizarre contraption that looked a bit like an exercise machine. I had to place my left foot on a platform and hold a handle with my right hand. Then my right foot, left hand.

I wasn’t, thank goodness, asked to juggle three bunnies standing on only one leg. At this point I almost certainly would have dropped one of them. I was thanked (I should think so) and sent to another person who checked my computer.

Then I discovered that I had been directed to the wrong terminal.

I found my way to the right one. This time I was prepared, and removed every bit of metal on my person, except for a couple of fillings which, had I been able, I’d have gladly torn out. But they weren’t enough to set off the little joy-bell, and I swear I could see the disappointment on the security guard’s face.

On, at last, to Milan, and civilization. I couldn’t get out of the land of my birth quickly enough.