Right of passage

I realise that I have for some time been approaching my life with all the flexibility of an Orangeman. Every day I march my traditional route to a well-known sandwich shop. I buy the same sandwich and march back. Anyone who gets in my way is treated with the sort of courtesy that a member of the Orange Lodge might muster to deal with a group of Catholic residents on the Garvaghy Road. ‘Stand aside, I must walk over this precise piece of pavement because that is the way it has always been.’ Tourists taking photographs are given particularly short shrift — I must figure in literally thousands of smiling holiday snaps as I fulfil my lunch requirements with the grim determination of an Apprentice Boy of Londonderry.

The other day my route required me to force my way past a Russian government security team which was attempting to protect a Muscovite minister as he got into his car.