Return of the sunburnt suspect.

After two weeks in paradise sun-kissed beaches, cocktails with fruit hats, and a brief flirtation with happiness Martin returned to Heathrow looking like a deflated lilo. His tan had peeled, his hair had frizzed, and his soul had been left somewhere between Gate 12 and the duty free Toblerone pyramid. But worst of all, he still looked exactly like his passport photo.

That photo. That cursed, haunted relic. It had captured him mid-blink, post breakup, pre sandwich an expression that screamed “I’ve buried things.” Every time he handed it over, passport control paused, squinted, and reached for the panic button. It was less "travel document" and more "evidence in an unsolved case."

And so, Martin arrived at the passport control with his paperwork, his optimism, and the faint hope that bureaucracy might behave. Instead, he was greeted by George, a man whose face suggested he’d been mugged by office supplies. George stared at the photo, then at Martin, then back at the photo, as if waiting for it to confess. “You look... tense,” George said, snapping on a latex glove. Martin sighed. Paradise was over. The interrogation had begun.