Frisky

My Dear Fellows & Dear Princess,

This is sunset at the botanic gardens. Isn't that pretty?

When I got in, Cazza was talking to one of her doctors on the phone. He had just arrived in New Zealand for a visit and had made the HEINOUS customs faux pas of BRINGING IN AN ORANGE.

I think when that happens there's a SIREN and RED FLASHING LIGHTS and SECURITY MEN DESCEND ON ROPES FROM THE CEILING and a security beagle shits on your luggage.

The poor man had bought an orange in Sydney. A transit-orange if you will; and then he forgot about it. Until NZ customs.

Me and Cazza still enjoy watching programmes about NZ and Aussie customs. And the customs people are not subtle. They tend to ask the same barking questions over and over. "An ORANGE? An orange is FOOD," they explain. "Why did you say NO on the food form? An orange is FOOD. Why did you say NO? This is a LEGAL FORM."

"They're very fond of the frisk, aren't they?" said the doctor.

Cazza agreed that they are. Her cousin works for NZ customs and they get paid extra for a frisk. I wondered aloud if they get a special "finger up the bum" bonus.

You've got to hope so haven't you? I wouldn't even poke anyone up the bumhole with a stick without getting paid time-and-a-half to do so.

So there you go. A pretty sunset and a salutary tale. I wish you a safe journey and leave the orange at HOME, Princess.

S.