America's "Special Relationship" With Us - part two

So where was I? Oh yeah. I was in a queue at LHR. Having selectively passed through the 2nd metal detector, I was standing waiting at a table, opposite a female official who had a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp, with personality to match. Bulldog rifled through my belongings, and finally, checked my name against the ticket stub.
“Is this you?” she demanded, looking with incredulity at my ticket.
I was momentarily tempted – but this really wasn’t the time or place for sarcasm, and I’m no Samantha Marson. Besides, we had been upgraded to business class, and I wasn’t going to risk that.
Smiling sweetly, I settled for a simple “Yes.”
She looked quizzically, from the ticket to my face, and back again.
“Doctor? You’re a doctor?”
“Yes.”
Then it happened. Bulldog smiled back. Her face didn’t even crack. I couldn’t believe the transformation from snarling bitch to sweetie pie in an instant.
“Just qualified?” she softly asked as if to appease her aching brain.
“No... about 7 years ago” I offered. This one really threw her. She hurriedly flicked through my passport to check my date of birth. I was filling up with inner glee. Partly enjoying her obvious confusion, and partly because every woman loves to feel that she looks younger than her years**. Bulldog proceeded to tell all her colleagues that I’m a doctor, while I stood and smiled; a reluctant exhibit.

**The exception here is when you’re in a professional capacity – and a patient states “you look too young to be a doctor” for the hundredth time that day.