My field of occupation.

Every mile travelled is another thing learned about the world - that's what I like about leaving the house. For instance, foolishly putting an honest answer on your visa form on the plane is what gets you taken aside in the immigration queue to have a nice little chat with a swarthy Tunisian official who barely speaks any English and only offers you heavily accented French.

'Journalist', I wrote into the occupation field. "Brum-brum," I said to the nice man whilst doing a steering wheel movement with my hands a four-year-old would have sneered at. "Car journalist." The sinister fellow planted behind the desk scrutinised me, and carefully noted down all of the details from my green form and my passport.

"Goodbye," he said suddenly, nudging my stuff across the desk. And that was that as far as I could see - there were some suspicious-looking secret police-types standing by our coaches, but I didn't come into further contact with anyone official until leaving the country when I had to go through the whole shebang again. I am decided that I am going to have some master baker or celebrity chef business cards drawn up.