In a recent debate it emerged that anyone arriving by
air in this country is required to fill up a form with a number of personal details including his age ; the information is needed—and pretty desperately needed, I should think—for statistical purposes by the Board of Trade. A Conservative M.P. sought to invoke sympathy for a hypothetical celebrity who, being in a facetious mood, wrote down a lot of untrue data, and thus became liable to two years' imprisonment or a fine of LIoo. This speaker had me on his side straight away. All my life I have been one of those people—for I am sure we are a numerous class—in whom all forms evoke an impulse of flippancy, a desire to tease. In my youth I sometimes gave way to this impulse, returning far-fetched answers to questions about my Profes- sion, my Religion, my Distinguishing Marks (ii any). Though I no longer commit these jejune follies I still extemporise when asked for anything in the nature of a serial number. I first formed this habit in Russia, at whose frontiers the N.K.V.D. were always asking for the number of one's type-writer, one's field-glasses and such- like impedimenta. " 1777 ! " I used to bark, or " 84021 ! ", for who knows or cares what the real numbers are, or even whereabouts on one's possessions they are to be found ? This saved much time and trouble, and I still employ the technique when asked for the number of my identity card. This (as far as I can see) useless piece of cardboard has lain in a drawer ever since I received it on demobilisation just over a year ago, and nobody has ever found fault with the quite arbitrary combinations of digits which from time to time I have written down when registering at an hotel or applying for a supplementary petrol ration. I must be liable to Heaven knows how many years' imprisonment. * *
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