Whoopedoo, first Sunday of the month, time for the Farmer’s Market.
Never any of you here, though, are there?
‘Sorry, got to pretend to be milking my cows while I drink beer in the cowshed. But the wife and daughter will bring along some soiled carrots.’
Don’t worry, Farmer Giles. I’ll get up at 3 in the morning, put on a phony white apron and drive my cheese 700 miles, to fill in the gaps. You take the week-end off.
The coriander pesto and huckleberry jam brigade will be right behind. Miss Lavender Soap Twisty Pants is sure to pitch up with her whale music too.
And here comes the Great British Public.
Haven’t you got anything better to do on the Sabbath, than squeal over a home-made pie, with your pathetic woven baskets? Don’t you have an oven at home? Got arthritis or something?
Look at you standing as far back from my table as you possibly can, to fork a cheddar sample, as if it makes less of a commitment.
What do you think I’m going to do? Seize you by the wrist and force you to buy some Somerset brie?
In my dreams I’ve paid a Big Issue seller to stand behind you while I watch you freeze mid-way between us, panicking at the thought of having to part with a precious £2 coin.
And bless your cheeky little children. Gosh, they’re so cute I hardly even noticed my profits were down last month because of all the cheese they ran off with in their little monkey hands.
But it’s a different story with the bread, isn’t it? Falling over yourselves to dump cash at the unleavened, Rye, doorstep-loaf, Jesus stand. You don’t get fish magically appearing as well, you know? Just a mouthful of sawdust and an empty purse.
‘Is it organic?’ ‘Is it dairy free?’
No, shove it up your arse, I churned it between my toes.
And the lies you tell about ‘coming back later’ or- my favourite- ‘Will you be here next month?’
Let’s see. It’s in my diary for the next soul-crunching 10 years to sell cheese to cretins in a faux rural setting every week-end but I might die of a wasting disease before then or be imprisoned for asphixiating you with a pillow when you’re dreaming about moving out of your London postage stamp for a Better Way of Life in Snodgrass-on-the-Wold. Will you be here next month?
Oh good, here comes the bloke with the flute. Always look forward to that. Does he know he looks like a tool with that jester’s hat on? Does he feel like a tool when he drives home in his Nissan micra wearing it?
No, they haven’t been transported back to Medieval Times. They’re smiling out of embarrassment.
Why’s that woman looking so sad? Is it because she’s homeless or lonely or trying to find some friends?
No, it’s because she bought 2 avocados for a £1 at the first stall she came to and now she’s done the circuit there’s another stall selling 3 avocados for a £1.
Plus the chap is jollier, with rosier cheeks and also sells nice beetroot.
Life is so unfair.
So here’s a plan:
Why don’t you take the weight off your Birkenstocks and chow down on a slice of pizza from that curly-haired girl in the stripy apron?
Pop by the chocolate brownie stall next to me for a couple of dozen dessert samples.
Then load the Rye bread and avocados onto your Marry Poppins bike and cycle off.
You’ll be home in plenty of time for you Ocado delivery.