THE uniformed official at immigration in JFK recorded my fingerprints, snapped my photo, studied my visa and then, with a look of puzzlement, slowly took in my appearance which, after the rigours of a long-haul flight, was only slightly more dishevelled and unimpressive than usual — all scuffed shoes, jeans, t-shirt, scraggy hair, bulging lap-top bag with broken zip and, to top it all off, the haunted, not to say desperate, look of a helpless addict who hasn’t had a smoke in ten hours and would very much like to indulge his foul habit right here, right now, if not sooner, please.
