Good morning, good afternoon and good evening readers,

Whilst in Armenia I could strategically post my blog entries so that everyone would see them at home whilst the sun was still up. Now I am in Australia that is not entirely possible, unless I stayed up until the early hours. I love you guys, but I also love my sleep. I’m sure you understand. To be completely honest, I’ve got no fucking idea what time it is back in the UK. With daylight saving and me being on the other side of the bloody world, I’m going to need to sharpen up on my maffffssss.

So, let’s get this giggidy show on the road! I arrived in Melbourne yesterday and Faysal met me at the airport. I’d only ever seen him in India in shorts or a Lungi, the Kudle attire. When he strolled down the path fully clothed I almost didn’t recognise him.

You’re probably wondering why I titled this entry “The Bamboo Flute”. “Gasp” you said out loud in disbelief.  The words, “Oh I am so intrigued” fell from your lips. Ch’yeah, I know how to write a catchy title. Anyway, the story isn’t that riveting, but I am slightly delirious from the lack of sleep, so I’ll tell you ma wee story like it’s the best Greek tragedy you’ve ever goddamn read.

*coughs dramatically and clears throat* Ehhem. *More dramatic coughing*

The Bamboo Flute

It all started on the descent into Melbourne on a sunny day where time no longer existed, because I couldn’t work out the time difference. The sky was clear, because we were above the clouds and the sun shone in all its self-righteous glory. The air host/steward/attendant (for the love of political correctness I have no idea what to call them nowadays), handed out immigration cards that required completion for entry into Australia. I’ve filled one of these little suckers out before, no problem. I carefully read the typed words and go to complete the information accordingly.

BUT WAIT, I don’t have a pen! How can I complete this without a pen!?

I turn to my neighbour, “Excuse me dear flight companion that I have shared foot space with for 13 hours. Seeing as we have shared so much intimate space with one another, you wouldn’t perhaps have a pen for little old me?”

She replies, “Yeah, here you go”.

… Well, that was simple. No conversation though.

I complete the form and arrive at the declaration section. Here they ask you about anything you are bringing into the country. Vegetables, no. Seeds, no. Soil, no. Have you been near freshwater rivers in the last 30 days? No. Good job I’m not a farmer with a freshwater river in my back garden hey! I have completed the form and the airline then run a short video to sway any of those little liars who might not be telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

I’m watching the video and it very clearly states, declare or get in trouble. It’s very cleverly done, and I can’t imagine a British person would ever not be rumbled by this video. Their tag line is “Don’t be sorry, declare it”. Various people in the video give their excuses for not declaring certain things and profusely apologise afterwards. I mean, if that ain’t British I don’t know what is. Then I see a guy on the video with a load of wooden figures and I return to the form, “Do you have seeds, soil … wooden artefacts?”. I remember, I’ve got a bamboo flute in my suitcase.

UTTER PANIC.

Is it wood? I can’t google if it’s wood. Is it an artefact? Is an instrument an artefact? Can one thing also be another? Is the world round or flat? Why is the word abbreviation so long? Why is dyslexia so hard to spell? Is it bamboo? Bamboo technically grew from a seed. In another reality I would be carrying a seed. Do all time periods exist at once? I can’t remember if the flute is bamboo or not.

I’m really panicking now.

I follow the instructions of, if you are unsure answer yes. So I answer yes, and all the way up to baggage claim I am absolutely, categorically, shitting, my, pants. I’ll be bringing some soil into the country in my pants at this rate. Grade 1 bum nugget.

I go through passport control, wait for my suitcase to come through. I’ve been waiting 10 minutes at the wrong conveyor belt. I go to the correct belt; my hands are trembling, my legs shaking, I’ve gone weak at the knees. What if this bamboo flute is the undoing of all my hard work? I collect my bag from the correct place and approach the final pass. It’s time to declare my flute. OH THE TRAUMA.

A woman is standing there, and the words slowly release themselves from my wobbling mouth. “Erm, erm excuse me. Yes, hello. See, I’ve got a bamboo flute and I’m awfully worried because I wasn’t sure if it was considered as a wooden artefact and I’ve come an awful long way and I’ve filled it out on this form and I wasn’t sure and I wanted you to check, you know I want to be very honest. I am so sorry for the bother”.

A pause. A long dramatic pause. The world tilts on its axis. In the distance past a baby cries. In the future someone drops their toast butter side down, and in the present all of my life decisions flash before my very eyes.

“Bamboo isn’t wood.” *Stamps my form* “Go through please”

……

Stay in schools kids and learn about the world and all its plant and tree varieties. I promise it will relieve you of some poo inducing anxiety later on in life.

The End.

In temporary panic,

Charlotte