New Orleans

I hope no employees of the department of homeland security are reading this, because I'm about to be rather uncomplimentary about one of their number.

We're back home after several weeks of me introducing Pam to family and friends in England, where she appears to passed their intense scrutiny with flying colours, sunning ourselves on the beach in France, and Pam introducing me to her family in Tennessee (of which more anon).

I've always been aware of the enormous privilege my 18-month, multiple-entry visa represents - most people only get six months, and I never take this generosity for granted. But this time, I only got back into the country by the skin of my teeth.

A recent report prepared for the commerce department found that the United States' share of the world tourism market fell by 20% in the six years to 2006, despite the dollar plummeting to record lows. It said part of the reason for the fall was the hostile reception - long queues, photographs, fingerprints and general rudeness - awaiting many foreign visitors to the US.

Geoff Freeman, executive director of the Discover America Partnership, a coalition of businesses seeking to boost America's image around the globe, said: ‘People find that experience to be awful. They believe they are treated like criminals. The system is an inefficient and unfriendly process. We’re talking about staffing and basic customer service.’

Why am I telling you this? Because I experienced it at first hand when Pam and I arrived on the flight from London.

'How long are you planning to stay?' asked the immigration official when I finally reached the front of the usual interminable queue.

'Until my visa expires in November, hopefully,' I told him. He raised an eyebrow, spent a long time tapping away at his computer, and then said: 'I want you to go to the secondary screening office over there to your right, and answer a few questions.'

My heart sank, and I felt rather as though Winston Smith must have done when he was packed off to room 101. I'd already had an encounter with secondary screening the last time I arrived, to do my walk across America, and I still had the bruises from that occasion.

It was half an hour before I was called forward to stand in front of the desk like some petty offender cowering in the dock.

The officer wasted no time launching into his tirade. 'It says here you want to stay till the end of your visa,'he snapped. 'What makes you think you're entitled to do that? And who gave you an eighteen-month visa, anyway? The maximum is six months.'

I told him that there had been special circumstances involved because I'd been walking across America.

'That makes it even worse,' he persisted angrily. 'You know you're not allowed to work.'

No, walking, I said, making a little gesture with my hand by way of demonstration, two fingers trotting across the desk. He ignored me.

'Just because it says multiple entry doesn't mean you can come in as many times as you like,' he said, inexplicably. 'I'm going to have to send you home, but I can't do anything for now because our system has crashed. Go and sit over there.'

By now Pam had come to find me, and we sat despondently for another half hour or more, discussing what we'd do if I had to leave the country. Then my nemesis summoned me to the bench again to deliver his verdict.

'We've decided to let you in for three months,' he told me. That was a month short of the date my visa expired, but it was better than nothing.

I pushed my luck and pleaded for an extra month, but he was unmoved, still unable to fathom why anyone should want to walk from New York to Los Angeles.

Then Pam had a bright idea. She pulled out a Daily Mirror article about how we'd met, and just as she did so a supervisor strolled over. He took the piece of paper from his colleague, scanned it briefly, and said: 'Give him till November'.

It was an exact replay of the previous time, when they'd made me feel about as welcome as Osama bin Laden, refusing to give me any more than six months until I virtually got down on bended knees in front of the supervisor's supervisor.

I wondered whether it was some kind of choreographed bad-cop-good-cop routine, designed to prevent people from being complacent about being allowed into the country, or whether my oppressor simply failed all the exams at charm school.