Amongst the drivers and the shuffling cars at the taxi rank, an old round man stands to one side.  There are officials there already, in fluoro-jackets marshalling people into suitable vehicles with speed and efficiency.  The old man wears a black cap with white letters spelling ‘SECURITY’ across the front in that way that is too big, white and obvious to be the real thing. He doesn’t wear the same jacket as the others, and it’s not difficult to see that his presence is only just - and awkwardly - tolerated. In his right hand is a whistle, which he raises to his mouth many more times than he actually blows, often just letting it hang limply from his lip as he looks searchingly at the line of cars.  The official guys, in that slightly hyper way you relish the rush of people, fall to loud chatter and jokes in quieter moments. The round man takes the initiative and blows quickly twice on the whistle, waving to the next driver to make his way forward.  He too is awkward.  I just stared at this theatre.  Nobody says anything.