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Having retrieved my rucksack from the baggage carousel, and undergone the usual Customs and Passport Control checks, I had been intending to travel on homeward right away.But upon seeing the jovial cartoon character coffee bean cordially inviting me to ‘Try me — I’m Colombian!’ from a cheery poster in the windows of one of the Arrivals Hall refreshments bars, I had been lured inside as easily as a child into a sweetshop. Apart from two cups of coffee, I’d not wanted any breakfast on the plane, and I wasn’t feeling any hungrier now. But I persuaded myself that another cup of coffee couldn’t hurt.The refreshments bar was busy. At that time of the morning they were doing a brisk breakfast-time trade, and all of the tables were occupied. But by the time one of the harassed but friendly counter assistants had put a steaming cup of the advertised Colombian coffee in front of me and I’d paid for it, a table was being vacated by some travellers. A male member of staff promptly cleared away the previous customers’ breakfast debris, and wiped the table down, all nice and ready for the next lot of messy customers.I took my cup of coffee over to the newly vacated table and sat down.I was soon joined at the table by a party of three male customers, Oriental in appearance, who took up the remaining seats. The three twenty-something guys said Hi, and smiled and nodded at me politely. And I said Hi, and smiled and nodded back. These social pleasantries duly observed, the three young guys began jabbering away amongst themselves in some sing-songy language as they tucked into their coffee and doughnuts.I love a good cup of coffee, and this Colombian coffee was good — the ‘Bexley escorts‘ wasn’t kidding.I held the thick white cup of rich and strong and full-flavoured coffee in both hands, savouring the aroma. Sipping appreciatively, I reminisced over the great, getting-away-from-it-all Tyrolean holiday I’d just hadIn their brochure the travel agents had promised a serene, Great Outdoors peace-and-tranquility sort of holiday — and they had certainly delivered!After the all-night clubbing and beer excesses of last summer’s battery draining holiday in Ibiza, the quiet Alpine holiday was just what I’d wanted this year.Last year’s nightclub focused holiday on the lively Spanish island had been really great … but it’s not so great when you arrive home feeling like booking into a Recovery Clinic for a week.Sitting and enjoying my coffee, I was in a contented frame of mind.After all of that fresh Alpine air and hard daily walking exercise in my heavy-duty Trail Trekker hiking boots, I was feeling refreshed, reinvigorated, and ready for anything. My batteries were fully recharged, and in my post-holiday mood I was feeling positive and optimistic.On my solo holiday in the Austrian Alps, I’d been left alone with the time and space to think. To connect and commune with my inner-self, as it were.Now though, it was time to think about re-connecting and communing with the real world again. It was time to return to the regular hustle and bustle of life. To get back to the nitty-gritty normalities of humdrum, every-day routines and mundanities. Such as work. But I was okay with that. I was one of the fortunate ones: so many people dislike their jobs, but I enjoyed my job at the Garden Centre.At least, I’d thought I was one of the fortunate ones. If only I had been allowed the luxury, of returning to those humdrum, every-day routines and mundanities …I’d heard it said, that, after being befallen by some dreadful event, people sometimes said that they had actually been ‘warned’. That they’d experienced some sort of disturbing, ominous foretelling. That they had sensed, that ‘something’ was going to happen. That they had intuited, the unalterable approach of some doom-laden, life-changing event … That there had been a portent.

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I’d felt no disturbing presentiment of impending disaster. I’d received no subliminal advance warning that my heinous fate was about to be sealed. No mental alarm bells had rung. The hairs on the back of my neck hadn’t stood on end. Nor had I gone all goose-pimply. I’d had no sixth-sense premonition, advising me of my imminent doom. In short: I hadn’t intuited, that I was about to be consigned to an unspeakable future.A few minutes after leaving Terminal 5 Arrivals, I’d been arrested by two camera-concealing Community Service Officers (Bexley escorts).The CSO uniform is immediately identifiable: blue blouse, red, short skirt, yellow cotton ankle socks, and black, backless, thick-rubber soled clog-like shoes.Though somewhat incongruously, even laughably, attired, these female Authoritarian Female Party government enforcer-type employees are certainly no laughing matter. They are very definitely not to be messed with or in any way disrespected. You laugh at them at your peril. Take them lightly, to your great cost — a harsh lesson, that many males have learned the hard way since the AFP won the General Election.By dint of the powers vested in them by the AFP, CSOs inspire fear and strike dread in male minds and hearts. Which is, of course, their primary function.Whenever they are seen, and wherever they are happened upon, the CSOs are to be avoided if at all possible … before they happen to you. And if they can’t be avoided? Avoid direct eye contact, and say nothing unless spoken to is the wisest precaution.The two CSOs were wearing their customary standard issue black nylon utility belts. Attached to which, were their handcuffs, pepper spray, taser, and their walkie-talkie radios. Also conspicuous on their persons were their wicked-looking AFP issue flexible bamboo canes. And to top it all off, as it were, no less intimidating was their helmet-like hair: Styled in the AFP government’s severe, militaristic-looking adaption of the concave bob, the scary hairdo gave many males (me included) the heebie-jeebies.The two CSOs apprehended me outside Arrivals, brandishing their canes and ordering me to ‘Stop, right there!’.”Bexley escorts” one of them informed me, and I almost foolishly said ‘No way!’, but fortunately reason prevailed as my sense of self-preservation duly kicked in.Their melodramatic accosting of me caused a few heads to turn. But otherwise I hadn’t been particularly concerned: the stopping and harassment of males by patrolling power-mad CSOs was commonplace … But that soon changed.The two CSOs ordered me to assume the Defenceless Position: to stand facing them with my legs wide apart, and with my hands clasped on top of my head.As soon as I’d complied, they began searching me — and to my consternation they confiscated my passport, bagged my wallet … then they informed me that they had been secretly filming me.In a decidedly smug, self-satisfied— no, gleeful manner, the two CSOs pointed to their buttonhole cameras, and told me they had secured three separate counts of “bang to rights” video evidence against me.

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