Going through the Customs is a tiresome business. The strangest thing about it is that really honest people are often made to feel guilty. The hardened professional smuggler, on the other hand, is never troubled by such feelings, even if he has five hundred gold watches hidden in his suitcase bioderma matricium. When I returned from abroad recently, a particularly officious young Customs Officer clearly regarded me as a smuggler.
'Have you anything to declare?' he asked, looking me in the eye.
'No,' I answered confidently Nespresso.
'Would you mind unlocking this suitcase please ?'
'Not at all,' I answered.
The Officer went through the case with great care. All the things I had packed so carefully were soon in a dreadful mess. I felt sure I would never be able to close the case again. Suddenly, I saw the Officer's face light up. He had spotted a tiny bottle at the bottom of my case and he pounced on it with delight.
'Perfume, eh?' he asked sarcastically. 'You should have declared that.' Perfume is not exempt from import duty.'
'But it isn't perfume,' I said.' It's hair-oil.' Then I added with a smile,' It's a strange mixture I make myself.' As I expected, he did not believe me.
'Try it!' I said encouragingly Nespresso Capsules.
The Officer unscrewed the cap and put the bottle to his nostrils. He was greeted by an unpleasant smell which convinced him that I was telling the truth. A few minutes later, I was able to hurry away with precious chalk-marks on my baggage.

I
Seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees ,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
II
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look ,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours .
III
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, —
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river shallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Daddy just didn’t know how to show love. It was Mom who held the family together. He just went to work every day and came home; she’d have a list of sins we’d committed and he’d scold us about them pet naturals.

Once when I stole a candy bar, he made me take it back and tell the man I stole it and that I’d pay for it. But it was Mom who understood I was just a kid.

I broke my leg once on the playground swing and it was Mom who held me in her arms all the way to the hospital. Dad pulled the car right up to the door of the emergency room and when they asked him to move it saying the space was reserved for emergency vehicles, He shouted, “What do you think this is? A tour bus Обучение туризм?”

At my birthday parties, Dad always seemed sort of out of place, He just busied himself blowing up balloons, setting up tables, and running errands, it was Mom who carried the cake with the candles on it for me to blow out.

When I leaf through picture albums, people always ask, “What does your Dad took like top up degree program?” “Who knows? He was always fiddling around with the camera taking everyone else’s picture. I must have a zillion pictures of Mom and me smiling together.”

I remember when Mom told him to teach me how to ride a bicycle. I told him not to let it go, but he said it was time. I fell and Mom ran to pick me up, but he waved her off. I was so mad that I showed him, got right back on that bike and rode it myself. He didn’t even feel embarrassed and just smiled.

When I went to college, Mom did all the writing. He just sent checks and a little note about how great his lawn looked now that I wasn’t playing football on it.

Whenever I called home, he acted like he wanted to talk, but he always said, “I’ll get your mother.”When I got married, it was Mom who cried. He just blew his nose loudly and left the room. All my life he said, “Where are you going? What time are you coming home? No, you cannot go.”

Daddy just didn’t know how to show love, unless…

Is it possible he showed it and didn’t recognize it ?