Bowl movements
Jun. 24th, 2008 01:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
webofevilMy father is notorious for being random with presents. God knows it can be hard to know what to buy someone, but his gifts can vary from “A Present From Norway” coffee-table books (because he’s Norwegian, incidentally; he’s not quite that random) to, for example, the time he sent me a whole salmon from Norway through the post, which would have been fine except that he decided it would be easier if he cut it in two, thus rendering the vacuum packing null and void and rendering me unpopular at the local sorting office when I was eventually able to go and pick up my parcel after a week.
He had apparently been mulling over my latest present for months, but the first I knew of it was when I saw him at my sister’s 40th in Fredrikstad on Friday evening. It’s a family heirloom—an antique wooden drinking bowl, once used for drinking mead, that used to hang in my grandparents’ dining room.
Antique Norwegian folk art drinking bowl (serving suggestion)
Although the first thing about it to strike you, the recipient, might be its size and how to go about bringing it back to England, it turns out that the most pertinent thing about it is the word “antique” in the previous sentence. As he was telling me about the fact that he was giving it to me and it was just outside in the car, my father produced the stamped certificate that he had gone and got from Norway’s national museum allowing me to take the bowl out of the country. “You will have to declare this at Customs,” he said. My brother and sister had also received drinking bowls, both of which were slightly more elaborate in design and thus, apparently, were far less likely to be allowed out of the country. I was both moved by the gift and slightly alarmed at the possible scenarios I saw unfolding at Gardemoen airport.
(The birthday party itself went exactly as birthday parties should. At 2am my sister called order from on top of a table in the restaurant, holding aloft a long turquoise scarf. “Something happens to you when you turn 40, both physically and mentally,” she announced. She stood on the scarf like a skipping rope. “Mentally speaking, wisdom is like a rubber band.” She accidentally tore the scarf in two, and regarded it thoughtfully. “It can be divided into two parts.” She waved the two bits of scarf vaguely over her head. “Wisdom is also like rhythm gymnastics,” she said.
“Come and have a drink,” cried someone in the crowd.
“Right,” agreed my sister, and she disembarked from the table.)
At the airport I had to ring for service at the Customs desk. “I’d like to take this out of the country,” I said, presenting the bowl. “Here’s the certificate saying I can.” “Right,” said the officer, uncertainly. “Just a minute.” He took the paper from me and went back into his office, saying the Norwegian equivalent of, “Oi, Terry, you know anything about this?” He returned a couple of baffled minutes later. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he said. Of course, sod’s law dictates that if my dad hadn’t gone to all that trouble, I would somehow have been spotted and hoiked in for questioning before I ever even made it to Duty Free and would right now be furiously demanding to call the British embassy.
No such worries at this end, though. Customs at London City Airport consisted of a red phone. “I’ve got something to declare,” I said. “Where are you?” said the voice. “The red channel,” I said. “Are you at Stansted?” said the voice. “No,” I said. “Ah. What are you declaring?” said the voice. “A wooden bowl from Norway. I have to prove I’m allowed to bring it with me,” I said. “Well, I’m at Stansted airport right now, but thanks for your honesty. Enjoy the rest of your trip,” said the voice.As I replaced the receiver I felt a bit guilty about not mentioning the heroin. Your suggestions are invited for an even more risibly ineffective method of Customs control.
He had apparently been mulling over my latest present for months, but the first I knew of it was when I saw him at my sister’s 40th in Fredrikstad on Friday evening. It’s a family heirloom—an antique wooden drinking bowl, once used for drinking mead, that used to hang in my grandparents’ dining room.
Antique Norwegian folk art drinking bowl (serving suggestion)
Although the first thing about it to strike you, the recipient, might be its size and how to go about bringing it back to England, it turns out that the most pertinent thing about it is the word “antique” in the previous sentence. As he was telling me about the fact that he was giving it to me and it was just outside in the car, my father produced the stamped certificate that he had gone and got from Norway’s national museum allowing me to take the bowl out of the country. “You will have to declare this at Customs,” he said. My brother and sister had also received drinking bowls, both of which were slightly more elaborate in design and thus, apparently, were far less likely to be allowed out of the country. I was both moved by the gift and slightly alarmed at the possible scenarios I saw unfolding at Gardemoen airport.
(The birthday party itself went exactly as birthday parties should. At 2am my sister called order from on top of a table in the restaurant, holding aloft a long turquoise scarf. “Something happens to you when you turn 40, both physically and mentally,” she announced. She stood on the scarf like a skipping rope. “Mentally speaking, wisdom is like a rubber band.” She accidentally tore the scarf in two, and regarded it thoughtfully. “It can be divided into two parts.” She waved the two bits of scarf vaguely over her head. “Wisdom is also like rhythm gymnastics,” she said.
“Come and have a drink,” cried someone in the crowd.
“Right,” agreed my sister, and she disembarked from the table.)
At the airport I had to ring for service at the Customs desk. “I’d like to take this out of the country,” I said, presenting the bowl. “Here’s the certificate saying I can.” “Right,” said the officer, uncertainly. “Just a minute.” He took the paper from me and went back into his office, saying the Norwegian equivalent of, “Oi, Terry, you know anything about this?” He returned a couple of baffled minutes later. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he said. Of course, sod’s law dictates that if my dad hadn’t gone to all that trouble, I would somehow have been spotted and hoiked in for questioning before I ever even made it to Duty Free and would right now be furiously demanding to call the British embassy. No such worries at this end, though. Customs at London City Airport consisted of a red phone. “I’ve got something to declare,” I said. “Where are you?” said the voice. “The red channel,” I said. “Are you at Stansted?” said the voice. “No,” I said. “Ah. What are you declaring?” said the voice. “A wooden bowl from Norway. I have to prove I’m allowed to bring it with me,” I said. “Well, I’m at Stansted airport right now, but thanks for your honesty. Enjoy the rest of your trip,” said the voice.
L here
Date: 2008-06-25 05:24 pm (UTC)