The Trouble with little Green Stickers

One of the problems with living in a foreign land is that your gifts come labelled as to their contents courtesy of that evil green custom's stamp. Usually this isn't a problem. I avert my eyes. I stick a post-it over the offending little bastard. Or I just rip off the outer covering and hope the contents have been double-wrapped.

Not this time though. This time my good intentions were thwarted. All because my crazy landlord has no knowledge of meat curing techniques.

To be honest I'd kind of guessed what was in the package before the incident in question. It came from the west coast of Canada. It was a long flat rectangular box that was vaguely squishy. Have you guessed yet? Yes, Smoked Salmon. Yummy smoked salmon. Good for what ails you. And it's a tasteful orangey-pink colour. Brightens up any meal. Yay! I like smoked salmon.

But, of course I wasn't sure. It might not have been smoked salmon. It might have been, say, a really big novelty tie. Or maybe an inflatable hammock. Or a brand new Rolex cleverly wrapped to look and feel like a box of smoked salmon.

But my crazy landlord forced the issue.

"Hey, shouldn't you put that in the fridge?" he said.

"Why would I put it in the fridge? Do you know something I don't?"

"Well, it just looks like the kind of thing you should put in the fridge."

"Nonsense! It looks like an inflatable hammock!"

"Yeah, but you can tell what it is..." he said. "And it should probably go in the fridge."

"No," I said firmly, "No you can't tell."

"Sure you can. It's written right there." And then the little varmint pointed at the sticker.

What is it about fingers? Why do we follow where they lead? What makes them the messiah of all digits? He pointed. My eyes followed and then I knew.

I knew absolutely. There was no doubt. My package contained smoked salmon. I sat down, deflated, all the joy I had built up as a little tyke fled my body. I now knew what I was getting for Christmas. And yes, I was happy with it, and yes, when the time came I would eat it with relish. Well, not with relish as in the green pickled spread, but with vigour and enthusiasm; you know what I mean. But the mystery was gone. That amazing energy you get from the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle of Christmas had dissipated. And why? Because my close friend and landlord thought because something said "fish" it meant "refrigerate instantly or risk death".

I sighed. "It's smoked salmon. Why do you think they smoked it in the first place? So it will keep. That's why the art of smoking meat was invented: as a preservative. Plus the thing is probably vacuum-sealed anyway. Trust me. It will keep 'til Christmas."

"Okay. I was just worried."

"It's all right. Everything will be fine."

It was a small happening. The entire conversation took less than a minute. And I bear my dear semi-departed landlord no ill will.

However, I now harbour a secret burning vendetta against Canada Customs. It is no coincidence that those stickers are the same colour as the Grinch. You can be sure the next time I cross the border it will be carrying diamonds which have been hollowed out and carefully packed with opiates and more than my duty-free allotment of cheap cigarettes and booze. And you can be damn sure I won't be wearing any damn green sticker.