I had three very strange conversations on Wednesday.
Our local Garden Centre has a Food Hall. Until about a year ago, there was a section in it that sold fruit and vegetables. Then, they allowed a local trader to set up a greengrocery stall outside the building and converted the space inside, that had been occupied by apples, potatoes, leeks etc into a bakery/patisserie area.
When I first went to the new greengrocer, I had something of a surprise. I asked the man running the stall for some potatoes.
“Don’t sell ‘em sir. Fruit only.”
“But your sign says you’re a greengrocer.”
“That’s right sir. Finest fruit in the area.”
“But not vegetables.”
“Not at this time of year, sir. It’s not the veg season.”
I was speechless and so, that conversation ended there.
On Wednesday this week, I wanted some cooking apples and I went back to the “Purveyor of Fruit but not Veg”.
I asked for some Bramleys.
“What are they?” the man asked.
I was amazed that a man whose job was to sell fruit had never heard of Bramley apples.
“They’re cooking apples.”
“We only sell fruit,” he told me.
“Yes, some cooking apples please.”
“Cooking apples are veg.”
“No, they’re not," I said. "Apples are fruit. They have seeds.”
“Sorry, to us they're veg and we don’t sell them.”
“So, let me get this right. You have decided to reclassify cooking apples as vegetables?”
“No, they’ve always been vegetables.”
“That’s nonsense.” I was becoming exasperated. “How can they be vegetables when they are apples. What about Granny Smiths?”
“Fruit. Do you want some?”
“No, I don’t. Look,” I said, “I must be a bit thick. How can Granny Smiths be fruit but Bramleys are veg?”
“For the same reason that potatoes, parsnips and leeks are veg.”
“And what’s that?”
“You cook ‘em.”
I was beginning to see a certain weird logic in his assertion.
“What about tomatoes?” I asked.
“Either,” he said. “Or both. If you eat ‘em raw they’re fruit but if you cook ‘em, they’re vegetables.”
*****
An hour later, I was in Waitrose and decided that for the first time, I would have a coffee in the cafeteria.
I was greeted by a large, matronly woman with a huge beaming smile spread across her face.
“Hello, my darling. What can I do for you, sweetheart?”
“I’d like a coffee please.”
“Certainly, lovey. What kind would you like, poppet?”
“An ordinary one with milk please.”
“That’s an Americano, my darling. Anything else, my lovely?”
“Yes please. May I have a piece of flapjack?”
“Absolutely, my love. Anything else, sweetie?”
I was somewhat taken aback, realising that in the last 30 seconds, I’d been bombarded by more terms of endearment than I’d previously received in my whole life.
*****
Having recently been showered with words of love, I was feeling better about myself than I have for a long time when, an hour later, I went into a hardware shop that I visit quite often, to get a key cut.
As I was about to leave, the owner told me that he’d just put in an offer on a house that was for sale in Stony Stratford, near to where the Queen lives. As Stony Stratford is on the western edge of Milton Keynes and nowhere near a royal residence, I was a little perplexed.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “The Queen doesn’t live anywhere near there.”
“Yes, she does. She’s got a house on Church Street in Stony.”
“What do you mean? What kind of house?”
“Just an ordinary one but I don’t think she’s been there for some time. She used to be there quite often though.”
I wondered if he was attempting to be funny but he was serious and seemed to believe what he was telling me. The thought of the Queen living in a semi in Stony Stratford took a bit of getting my head round but I tried.
“How do you know all this and why doesn’t anyone else know?”
“I heard that it started about 50 years ago,” he replied. “She wanted to know what it was like to live like an ordinary woman. That’s why it had to be kept quiet.”
“They wouldn’t have been able to keep that quiet,” I argued. “Someone would have gone to the press.”
“My brother found out and he didn’t.”
“How did he find out? Did he go round and have a chat?”
“Yes, more or less. He knocked on the door once and it was answered by a bodyguard.”
“How did he know it was a bodyguard? Did he say that he was one of the Queen’s bodyguards?”
“No, but he was wearing a suit and a tie.”
“That’s not proof. Loads of people wear suits and ties, even in Stony Stratford.”
“Not on a Saturday morning, they don’t.”
“Oh, of course, you’re right,” I capitulated. “That tie is the definite, conclusive proof that the Queen has a house in Stony Stratford. She was probably in the kitchen at the time when your brother called. She would have been washing up and that’s why she couldn’t answer the door herself. She’d have had wet hands and so she asked a bodyguard to answer it for her.”
“Yes, it could have been something like that.”
“Come on, this is ridiculous. There’s probably a woman there who looks a bit like the Queen. Do you remember that woman who used to make a living out of looking like her?”
He just shrugged. “Think what you want,” he said. “But I know what I know.”
And now, so do you but please, keep it to yourself. Give the poor woman some peace.
