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Hidden Contraband by Biard Zukitoff

I smiled to myself and adjusted my watch to U.K. time, it was now just after 6.15 a.m. as the taxi drew away from Heathrow on its way back to Hammersmith where I lived, my cases were now safely stored next to the driver in the London taxi after the customs officer at the airport had let me through having asked the usual questions.

"Did you pack this case yourself?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Would you mind opening this one?" The officer said pointing to one of my matching Samsonite bags.

I spun the case around to face me and taking a small key from my pocket, unlocked and opened it.

The customs officer turned it back to face her and peered inside, first of all rifling through the garments, toiletries and personal items and then taking out the white leather trousers, waistcoat and boots from the top and placing them on the table.

"They're very smart, are they new?" She enquired.

...

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