I was waiting in line at the service desk at the local library, with an issue. For the most part, the library is fully automated and amply stocked with terminals in all wings, floors and departments, but my problem was slightly more inconvenient, so there I stood, pushing my cashmere scarf up around my neck, and dangling an art bag with the depiction of Peter Paul Ruben’s ‘The Raising of the Cross’ from the ‘Onze-Lieve-Vrouwekathedraal’ of the City of Antwerp from the crook of my arm, and within it an overdue library book, forming the centre of my issue there, today.

The library was busy at that hour: in front of me was a young mother with babes; in front of her another lady, and in front of her, an entire Moslem family: mother, father, prams, toddlers, grandfather and sister, young sons, daughter, oldest son. The mother of the tribe led the conversation with the desk attendant about missing credentials and application forms. It all didn’t look all too promising and everyone waiting began to fidget.

Here comes a woman approaching from afar. The woman had come to join the queue, but was disappointed at the length of it. And now she reluctantly came in behind me, all the while her gaze fastened at the head of the line, clutching her book against her breast like a bible, and without deterring her gaze from the object of her focus and  pretending not to be noticed by anyone around her, managed to shuffle so far forward that she ended up standing next to me.

Shuffling forward in queues that do not move is a classic misunderstanding, I think. The shuffler desperately wants to think that something is happening; ANYTHING that will give them the notion that standing there is fulfilling some purpose. But, when they bluntly try to overtake you, then a queue macro-cosmos awareness-thingy begins to take shape. How far will they push it? Will they be willing to duel over it? Is one’s own status in line actually threatened? Will we need to take this outside?? The tension in a queue with notorious shufflers can make you want to pull a knife, just to alleviate it. The woman never failed to look away from the start of the queue, her eyes glistening from not blinking, and her mouth set in the pout of the disenfranchised; both suggesting the enormous effort that it took her to wilfully ignore any other aspect of the Dance of Death she had entered into when coming up behind this expectant mob.

And now, from the corner of my eye, I could see how she was levelling with me in order to surreptitiously overtake. I looked down at my stockings, and at her feet, that were heading for the finish line with miniscule shuffling movements; her head perfectly erect, her gaze unfaltering, as if she were picking my pocket.

Luckily for her, I was in a good mood. In any normal circumstances I would have pinned her down right there, forcing her to admit to her crime whilst gripping her in a half-nelson. But today I pitied the sweet old thing (she was not so old) hoping, as we headed closer – now that the family had migrated to a separate counter – to be able to put in a good firm word to bring her back to earth. The opportunity presented itself with the next arrival:

Another woman arrived, and to my amazement displayed the exact same characteristics as the lady next to me: the look of self-pity and confusion, the head held high. Oh, I think they all attended drama classes somewhere, long ago – only this person conveniently nestled herself into her own version of the end of the line: right behind the person being helped. Face erect, and viewing only the service desk clerk with a look of sympathy and understanding, the sound of my voice then entered her realm. I would get them both to wake up, I thought, with one single manoeuvre. Not too hard. “The line carries on over this way, Madam,” I called out amiably, “behind this lady!” and I pointed to the woman next to me. That’ll teach her.

Well, some people take that sort of thing quite badly. I think it would have been better if I had just relinquished my ‘spot’ and let her go ahead. While it was my turn, she nestled herself up so close to me, that her body separated me from the electronic bankcard machine. She refused to budge. And, as I circumvented her in order to use it, I was met with the same chilling, wet and vacant eyes again. People ask me why I don’t watch thrillers. Why, life in a queue can provide all the horror needed. Need something just short of real life combat? Go stand in line. In the most civilized place you know.