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. ‘Please wait for a moment, young lady,’ said the tall streak of menace with wires protruding from every area of his ruthlessly sharp Armani suit. To my astonishment I heard myself declaring, ‘I certainly will not. Let me pass immediately or I shall report you to the relevant authorities for obstructing a public highway.’

Like many of those anachronisms who march to protect ideals and scream ‘No Surrender!’, I have never been entirely certain in my own mind exactly why I feel so strongly about my right to make my way unmolested to a particular sandwich chain and purchase the same ham and cheese combination. I just always knew it was somehow central to the very essence of who I am.