The abuse of the English accent happened long before landing on American soil. Having been denied a seat next to Pete on the plane I thought I'd approach customer services with a smouldering look that in my head resembles James Bond, in the external world, a man in need of a bathroom.
Overhearing her name in conversation, I say, with perhaps too much surprise, as if seeing an old friend, "Sarah!"
Within five minutes, a few smouldering looks and the most charming English accent I could manage, I had young Sarah printing me a new boarding pass.
Let's hope my skills of persuasion work just as well at immigration, where I'm paranoid to the point of feeling like I'm only pretending to be a "regular tourist."
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