Nice Melons

In London last week we were still experiencing a heatwave that had been raging on for the past month. By Friday, it was 32 degrees and Mr Maybe and I were fantasising about buying a watermelon, sticking it in the fridge until it was chilled and then consuming it in big gulps while we lay on the sofa in our underwear – much like pythons do by unhinging their jaws.

Sadly everyone else in the neighborhood seemed to have the exact same idea because I couldn’t get hold of a watermelon for love nor money.

I had completely given up and resigned myself to going home to our stiflingly hot  flat – when I passed by a little corner shop on my way and spotted the biggest watermelon I have ever seen.

I ran inside and excitedly pointed at it, asking how much it would be.

The guy behind the till looked skeptically at me before saying

“£12 – but this is too heavy for you to carry!”

Immediately my feminist principles were injured. Of course I could carry a piffling watermelon! I wasn’t made of glass! Think of Emmeline Pankhust! Yes! Would *she* let someone tell her she couldn’t carry a watermelon?

I think not.

So I politely insisted that no, really – I wanted the watermelon.

He raised an eyebrow and bustled around the counter with it in his arms before rolling it into my own as if it were a new born (albeit morbidly obese) child.

Did my knees buckle slightly?


Was I going to let him know that I immediately regretted this decision?

Not on your nelly.

Instead the shop keeper watched me with bemused interest as I waddled uphill in 32 degree heat with the gigantic fruit.

Halfway up the hill I started to get mild chest pains. But goddamn it, the shop keeper was still watching me (most likely with emergency services on steed dial) – so I soldiered on. Sweat billowing down my face quite freely.

I couldn’t help wondering how many calories this was burning.

Somehow (and I don’t know how) I made it to the top of the bloody hill without a heart attack, hernia or otherwise unfortunate incident.

As luck would have it Mr Maybe was splayed on the verge outside our flat like a dejected bumblebee in an attempt to keep cool. I staggered over to him with ‘Chariots of Fire’ playing in my head and breathlessly worded that he needed to take it from there.

Potential internal bleeding aside – the look on his face was entirely worth it

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