Brexit has turned us into a couple of crooked crooks. Smugglers no less. Not unwitting, I might add. Intent on breaking the law. Prepared to pay the fine. Or do the time. Well, not quite.
Rules, regulations and even laws are best applied to others, aren’t they? The idea of crossing over (under in our case) into France and not being allowed to stock up Beastie’s Belly with pre-cooked meals, meat and dairy products, didn’t align itself. So we made a plan.
Just before entering the train we transferred lock, stock and two smoking barrels into Scoot’s top-box and under seat storage area. If we were going to get caught, then they’d have to strip-search Beastie’s garage. Fumble around in his nether regions. And the way I load that up for each trip does not present a particularly pleasant sight. The aim, to create a feeling of ‘it’s more than my job’s worth” nod and a knowing wink, and a wave-on by.
As it turned out, our clandestine cavorting came to no avail. No red or green channel to choose. We weren’t even asked the prerequisite “Anything to declare?”
All clear in . . .
All clear out . . .