Love, Life, Europe

UK Customs don’t like me. I know this because they told me and gave me a special stamp in my passport to prove it.
Due to a series of mishaps I was running late. I reached the International platform at Gare du Nord to see the gates close on my train to London.
With my panicked, pathetic tale, the ticket clerk agreed to change my non-flexible ticket to the next train at no cost. Whether out of empathy or the desire to have me out of France, I’m not sure.
The next train is announced. Bounding through the gates to the passport check, the interrogation begins.
“What is the purpose of your trip?”
“Visiting friends.”
“How long do you intend to stay?”
“2 to 3 weeks,” I answer.
Her eyebrows rise.
“We want to know that you’ll be leaving,” she said.
“Well” I explain, “my return ticket is for January,” 6 months away.
“That’s longer than 3 weeks.”
“Yes, but aren’t Australians allowed to stay in the UK for 6 months without a Visa?”
“That’s a stupid law! No one else does it and I don’t see why we should either!”
Back to script she asks where I’ll be staying. I show her my hotel reservations, pleased that I have done something properly.
“This is only a week,” she says
“Hotels are really expensive during the Olympics. I was hoping it would be more reasonable when the Olympics finished.”
“What is your occupation?”
“I don’t have one,” I reply.
There is no one waiting behind me and very few people in other queues. I’m getting concerned that I may miss this train too.
“How much money do you have with you?”
“None.” She sighs. “I mean, I have several thousand in the bank. I get a better exchange rate if I withdraw pounds instead of euro, then converting it”
She gives me a look. “We have a problem. You have no ticket showing you’re leaving, only a week of accommodation booked, no job, no ties home and no money on you. Can you see the problem?”
I can, “But I quit my job to travel. Don’t people do that all the time?” Naïve, that’s me.
“There’s nothing to assure me that you’re leaving if I let you in,” she states.
“I’m really leaving in 3 weeks,” I insist. I hand her my piece de resistance, a note from my mother, detailing my Grandparents flight and a reminder to meet them in Amsterdam in 3 weeks’ time. I’m 34 years old and this is what I had resorted to.
She returns the note, gives me a long look, reaches under her counter and pulls out her ‘I don’t like you’ stamp.
On the train, I work out why she stamped my passport at all; No one who was dishonest would’ve been as stupid.