Just ten years ago Sile and I made our (so far)only trip to America.
We went to my nephew David’s wedding in New Jersey.
We were there for about a week and, as we were only about an hour from Manhattan by train, we decided to spend a day in the big apple.
Our eldest daughter had been working in the states and had left her last wages in a bank there, so one of our jobs was to collect these from a hole in the wall. (Not an experience we were altogether familiar with at the time.)

We eventually plucked up the courage and started (or at least Sile did with me hovering protectively behind) punching the buttons on an ATM machine.

A rather large black man came up behind me and said
“Is this a line?”

I went into major frozen boggle.
What in Gods name did he want?
Was this something to do with drugs?
“Mainlining” and “lines of coke” sprang to mind as I wondered what this clearly drug crazed maniac (who looked anything but) was going to do to me.
Fortunately sanity and the sudden remembrance of past TV cop shows saved the situation.
I realised that the man was merely asking was I part of a queue.
I managed to stutter out a “no” and move out of the way.

Later that night in Jersey we were telling this story to John, the American friend we were staying with.
Now John was taking the photos of the wedding the following day.
As all the guests, mainly Irish, milled around after the ceremony
John started to try to get them in order.
“Get into a line” said John, to no avail to the milling chatting Paddies.
Suddenly John got inspiration and, with a triumphant look at me, thoroughly confused the guests by bellowing;
“Get into a queue!”