So, I am safely in Colorado Springs and have had a decent night's sleep. The journey was long, arduous and punctuated with some good beer (Jacob Leinenkugel Sunset Wheat is a nice, refreshing, full-bodied American Wheat. Lovely).

So far, I have managed to avoid making a Decision about perv scanners, because most airports route the premium passengers around them (I have Flying Blue Gold status, which entitles me to queue jump). But transferring at ATL makes it unavoidable. And when it came to it, there was no decision-making involved. I just said "no".

I wasn't expecting it, but what I was wearing was only slightly more than I planned to be wearing for the serious pat-down anyhow. It's an outfit designed to embarrass the person doing the pat-down by making it perfectly clear how ridiculous it is. It consists of a too-thin, slightly too small, stretchy camisole; too thin, slightly too small (but very comfy) leggings and nothing underneath it (with the clothing that covers this in the carry-on bag). I am not small, and this is not a good look. It's also almost impossible to hide anything underneath it and nothing is left to the imagination.

Anyway, I was dressed for comfort and was wearing leggings, a T-shirt and knickers (which should have been changed en-route, but I forgot. Schade). I had just come off a 9.5 hour flight, after a 1.5 hour flight and no time at Paris for a shower. I was really looking forward to the showers in the Delta lounge at this point.

They were very polite about my refusal, and almost agreed with my point that dealing with one cancer per life is more than enough. But it seems the fiercely independent Southerners are in fact a bunch of sheep who cower to government at the slightest thing. It seems they're not used to people saying no, and it took some time for them to find someone to do the pat down. In that time, a hot flush came on, guaranteeing that I was sweaty, smelly and unpleasant to be near, even if I hadn't been to begin with.

Eventually, after much awkward small talk, an attractive, rounded, African-American woman came along wearing the same sort of white vinyl glove the Sisters give out to women who have sex with women. I did not mention this. She enquired as to whether I wanted a private screening, and I pointed out that such things ought to have as many witnesses as possible. She asked if I had anywhere sore or painful to touch, and I reminded her that I had just got off a 9.5 hour flight and therefore much of me was painful to touch but I like that kind of thing so it was a bit moot. I indicated the really sore bit, just to keep her happy.

She went through the procedure, explaining it all veryveryfast, and then again when I asked her to speak a little more slowly as I am a Foreigner. She used euphemism to describe various places. And then she did the pat-down, and seemed terribly embarrassed by the whole thing. I, on the other hand, had found my reserve of British Stiff Upper Lip and remained utterly calm. She had a good look at the soles of my feet (probably filthy as I was barefoot on the plane for the bulk of the flight).

And you know what, it wasn't anything as bad as what I'd been led to expect, and definitely not thorough at all. You saw the bit up there about it being nearly impossible to hide anything under my screening outfit? Well, I have boobs. Had I been wearing a bra, it would have been an H-cup one. She didn't even go anywhere near underneath my boobs - a shame, that area gets particularly minging with the hot flushes. Nor would the rapescanner have spotted anything secreted there. Proof it's all just security theatre which would break down completely if Americans just adopted the British style of polite contempt for government authority.

ETA: And while this was going on, they scanned my luggage as usual, except I not only forgot to transfer the toothpaste into the clear bag which already contained my prescription medication, I forgot to take that bag out and present it. And they didn't notice.