You Can’t Send That To Germany

I organised to send you a special birthday hamper filled with items symbolic of our favourite memories and in-jokes, but after sourcing everything and wrapping it all in cellophane and ribbon, the man at the post office told me I couldn’t send it to Germany. 

He slid a laminated sheet of A4 paper across the counter that listed the items prohibited from entering the German postal system. Everything I’d bought and thoughtfully packaged was on the list. Even the wicker basket was forbidden under Item 13: Wood and Articles of Wood. 

I hung my head and told the man that the hamper was a 21st birthday present for my best friend, who had moved to Berlin to live with two Persian cats. He poked curiously through the hamper, inspecting the 24 pack of Duracell batteries and World War One-era ammunition I’d found on Facebook Marketplace. 

“You’d better find something to do with all this, it’s not going to Germany.” 

The perishables in the hamper ought to be eaten, I thought to myself. I unwrapped the portable stove (prohibited item 10: Electric Machinery) from its cellophane and ribbon and cooked up a meal, mindful of possible contamination from the twenty-odd vials of lab-stolen chemicals lying loose in the hamper. 

I handed the post office man a serving of Trout (prohibited item seven: Fish) with a drizzle of Manuka honey and a side of warm milk and boiled eggs (prohibited item six: Dairy Produce, Birds Eggs, Natural Honey). Tentatively, he took a bite, paused, nibbled. In a murmur barely audible, he remarked he’d never encountered fish with such an unusual yet decadent flavour.

He passed his plate to the white-haired man he’d been serving. The customer glanced across at me, then took a small bite. His expression changed. He was somehow lighter: his eyes closed in bliss as a small smile cracked across his face.

Within the hour a queue had formed around the block just to get a taste of my fish. The post office was full of customers munching away and picking through the hamper for items they thought useful to themselves. An elderly woman took the listening device, a young boy pocketed the coins and medals. I stood back and watched the community prosper.    

My fish had won the post office man’s trust. I hooked up the Xbox I’d included in the hamper to the second monitor on the counter and spoke to him about limerence while I played Assassin’s Creed. “We are born of love; Love is our mother”, I announced. He reminded me that love and limerence are not the same. 

The post office man asked me if he could keep the imitation Louis Vuitton purse from the hamper for his wife. I said that would be fine. I offered him the glass bottle of absinthe too, as a token of friendship, but he declined on account of his sobriety. 

“Your friend is into this sort of stuff?” he asked me as he inspected the AK47 and old Playboy magazines. 

“You could say that. She’s pretty strange. It’s why I love her so much.”

“Sounds like you two have a good thing going.”

I’m sorry I couldn’t get the hamper to Germany. What’s left of it is still here at the post office; we can pick it up together when you’re back.