Picture the scene. A quiet, small town corner shop, fairly newly open. It's eight o clock in the morning in the school holidays. There is no one else around as the owner contemplates taking tomatoes from the fresh fruit section and juggling them, something he's always wanted to do. When, suddenly, a mighty clatter arises as the door is slammed open, by the interpid passer by.
(I was not, sadly, wearing a cape at this point. To aid in the drama, imagine I was.)
The man has a wild look in his eyes. He has not shaved for several days, and looks as if he hasn't slept for them either. In one hand, he brandishes a cucumber from your own vegetable rack. He walks up to the counter with a purposeful gait, cloak that he isn't wearing billowing dramatically around his body from the draft from the door.
"This cucumber. Quickly."
His voice is gravelly and hoarse, like he's been gargling with gravel. Like he's a desperate man trying to be Don LaFontaine. Like he's a man who, at eight am on a Monday morning, knows he needs to buy a cucumber in a hurry and thinks he might as well make it cool.
His voice is gravelly and hoarse, like he's been gargling with gravel. Like he's a desperate man trying to be Don LaFontaine. Like he's a man who, at eight am on a Monday morning, knows he needs to buy a cucumber in a hurry and thinks he might as well make it cool.
He pays in cash. He thanks the man profusely, drops the cash into the charity box because he has no time to put it back in his wallet, and leaves the shop at speed, the cucumber held in the air.
I swear I bought this cucumber for a good reason. And not a sexual one, either;
And one day, I may tell you good people what that very good reason was.
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