I always feel nervous when I am being controlled by authority, even if I theoretically know I have nothing to fret about. Like in Beirut when stopped at an impromptu checkpoint by the army. Or on the bus when they check my Oyster card. I feel 'guilty until proven innocent'. Or when I'm queuing for a party and I know I'm on the guest list, but a part of me feels that my name will have magically disappeared, or that I just imagined it all...

I went to a big invite-only party last night. A trashy rival magazine's birthday bash. My name was on the List, my colleague and I were both on the confirmation email of our names being on the List three hours before it was due to roll.
I get there on my kitsch bike, and take my place in the queue. They're all in groups, greasy teenagers with ripped tights, bleached manes, and thick-framed emo eyeglasses. I get to the lady with the clipboard. She's got the List. It feels like a test. "Your name?", I think she was chewing gum. She had bangs and a long ponytail, white killer heels and the attitude of a bitch.
She's got to be, she's in possession of the List.
"Your name?
- Rasha."
She chews her gum and looks over the List. I glance at the clipboard, but she notices and swiftly hides it from me, like the nerd schoolgirl who wants you to fail in class.
It's taking longer than I expected.
And then she turns to me and says:
"You're not on the list, step aside.
- What?! I should be on the list, S. put me on it today. My colleague's already inside.
- Sorry mate, step aside now, behind the rope."

Everyone's looking at me with a smirk. I'm a 'blagger'. I don't look like one, though, I'm not wearing any make-up, not wearing heels and my dress in made of wool for fuck's sake! Blaggers are tall, caked in green eye-shadow and pink foundation, and wear gold mini-skirts even in sub-zero celsius. I didn't fit the part, yet everyone was staring at me, an underdressed un-cool blagger in brown wool...

List-lady's assistant the bouncer looks at me, after I've been pacing for ten minutes dialing number after number:
"- Can I help ya?
- Yes, my name is supposed to be on the list, my friends are inside, but I can't call them cause there's no signal inside."
And he looks at me with dead eyes and says:
"Well, that means it's time to go home."

I've got to admit, it's a pretty good line.

So I go back to chewing gum lady with the List, and I insist that she looks at the List again. I'm ON it, I must be. Can you look again? She rolls her eyes, but I'm sure that she gave me a break because I was just some plain, short girl, and I couldn't possibly be a blagger looking like I did.

"It's Rasha. R-A-S-...
- R-A...?
...
Yeah, you're on the list. I looked at R-U-S before. Yeah, let her in."

And, with that, I was ushered through security and into the dingy sweaty party.


Russia, again.
Old damn story.