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