Land of the free

John, my 23-year-old son, is asked to produce his passport when he orders a drink in a Washington restaurant called DC Coast. His driving license had been sufficient for identification elsewhere but not here.

The bar staff say they must ask for proof of identification from anyone who "looks under 30". Draconian laws prevent the consumption of alcohol by anyone under the age of 21. John's brother, Robert, a 20-year-old student, is much miffed.

It's not far from the hotel so John goes back for his passport. Meanwhile I order a bottle of wine and three glasses. The waiter looks at the vacant seat. "I can't bring a glass for this seat until I see identification," he says.

"I only want a glass. There's no-one sitting there for heaven's sake," I say.

The manager arrives and explains the terrible penalties that could be invoked if they serve drinks or do anything to look as if they might serve a drink to anyone who looks under 30 (and who, therefore, might possibly be under 21).

I ask what Americans use for identification (since many do not possess a passport). He says there are various acceptable forms of identity, but a British driving license is not one of them even though it is acceptable if you need to hire a car.

Station spy

Washington's Union Station is a very fine building. I'm captivated by the ceilings and the statuary. So captivated indeed that I photograph it on the second floor. As I approach the escalator to descend a voice behind me says: "Sir, you can't take photographs. It's not permitted on the second level."

"Why ever not?" I ask the security man who is wearing a wide-brimmed ranger's hat, the sort popularised by Baden Powell.

"It's the rules, sir. You need management permission."

"Well can I have it?"

"Have what?"

"Management permission."

"I'm sorry sir, there isn't a manager around."

"It's five minutes to five."

"They all leave at 3pm."

"Sounds like a good job," says I.

"They start at six and leave at three," he says.

I find another guard nearby and ask him about the rules. He says it's OK to take a picture on the second level. I tell him he's mistaken. We go in search of the other guard but can't find him. There is a third guard that we question, however, and he confirms the impression of the first guard.

A debate ensues. Neither man knows why there should be restrictions on photography but they speculate that it could be about industrial espionage - that the Union Station has such a fine shopping mall that other mall designers might want to copy it.

I imagine nefarious mall designers skulking in shop doorways, taking clandestine pictures with their hidden cameras. Anyway in my case it was closing the stable door after the horse had bolted since I had all the pictures I wanted. I'm selling to the highest bidder.

Killer earphones

Flying Virgin on the way home, Gill is asked to remove her earphones before take-off. She is then asked to stow the blanket wrapped over her knees underneath the seat in front.

I ask why. Apparently it has something to do with aviation safety rules. The blanket and earphones, it seems, may impede her exit should we need to get out quickly in an emergency.

A far greater obstacle, I'm thinking, is the narrow gap between each row of seats. But widening this gap would cost money. If Gill had entered the plane wearing a blanket, held together with a broach, this would have been perfectly acceptable.