“You won't believe this, but it's true”

The in-flight meal was good. Portioned, packaged, exact in its dimensions, and indistinguishable from that of the man in the next seat - but it was too much. It seemed like the fourth meal in as many hours, and the banana lay on the white plastic plate accusingly, daring me to leave it. I gave in and slipped it into the bag under my seat, to be immediately forgotten, until the Customs Officer, resplendent in a uniform that wouldn't have disgraced a Ruritanian Admiral, extracted it, holding it out between finger and thumb as if it was contagious.
“It is forbidden to bring fresh fruit into this country,” he said, firmly.
“It was part of my lunch - on the plane you know.”
“You have an import permit?” he asked.
“Well, no, of course not. I didn't think ...”
He lifted his chin and dropped the offending fruit onto the counter.
“It will be impounded.”
“What ?”
“The banana. It will be impounded for examination by the Department of Agriculture.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I said, exasperated. “Do what you like. I didn’t want it anyway.”
“Then why try to smuggle it into this country?”
“I did no such thing.”
The Admiral smiled knowingly, reached into a drawer under the counter, and took out a buff coloured form. He handed it across.

“Fill this out - Sir.”
“But ... Oh, all right, but ...”
He was already moving away to the next victim, satisfied that the day had begun well.
I filled in the form, sweating in the close-aired confines of the long shed, and marvelled at the stupidity of petty officialdom. Name - address - date of birth - reason for entering - port of departure - and so on. Why didn’t they want to know the colour of my grandmother’s eyes as well?
The form stuck to my damp hand, and the ink blurred on the cheap paper. This was a fine start to a new country. Finally I gave it back. The Admiral examined it, nodded, and chalked a squiggle on my case.
“You will be notified, Sir.”
“Of what?” I asked, anxiously, with visions of a cockroach infested jail. Missing, presumed stupid.
“Whether the banana is safe to import. Have a nice stay, Sir.”
“I see. Well, thank you.”
I didn’t see at all, and left the shed, hot and confused, and feeling the pitying looks of more seasoned travelers follow me into the harsh, bright sunlight.
A month later, the incident, if not forgotten, at best no more than a vaguely irritating memory, I received a windowed envelope. Puzzled, I opened it with my butter knife, read it, and burst out laughing. It was from the Department of Agriculture, informing me that my banana had been cleared for importation. The final paragraph was the rib tickler.

“ Please remit your money order for the sum of $5.00 if you wish the said fruit forwarded, or $10.00 if you wish it destroyed. The enclosed form should be completed and returned, indicating your preference.”
The signature was indecipherable.
I tossed the letter to my wife, who read it and also laughed.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“With that? Nothing, of course.”
“Why?”
I looked at her, mystified.
“Why? Because it’s nonsense, that’s why.”
“Oh, come on. We could have endless fun.”
I was still mystified. She tapped the letter and said, through a mouthful of toast and marmalade.
“This is bureaucracy at its most idiotic. Let’s send for it, and then disclaim it as being the wrong one.”
Understanding dawned. I’m not usually so thick, but it was early. I took the letter, and a few minutes later the form was completed. Later that day I mailed it, feeling slightly foolish.
Two weeks later a puzzled mailman delivered a small package that oozed stickily. We unpacked it in the kitchen sink, and transferred the barely recognizable contents to a polythene bag.
“Is that your banana?” my wife asked, suspiciously.
I peered at the rotten mess.

“Definitely not.”
“You’re sure?” she asked, seriously.
“Of course. Mine was a yellow-green colour, and that thing is ...” I poked it doubtfully.
“ Hm. I see what you mean. Very black and squishy.” She sighed. “Oh well. I suppose we’ll have to send it back.”
I grinned. “I suppose we will.”
And we did.