The tweed coat had been green when my father bought it for me in London that spring, but the nice old landlady at the little Scottish inn where we were staying when he was taken ill had firmly sent it out to be dyed the day before the funeral.
My father had been an engineer in Afghanistan and we hoped that he would find a nice job here in Iran but we realised that Afghans were not allowed to work here.
But the document belongs to a long tradition of those who have felt compelled, like Father Christmas, to categorise those whom they consider to be "naughty" rather than "nice".