I was visiting the town the other day, after some writing tools; and as Writwells, the most ancient of ancient shops, was just where I had left it, I went in.
The old-fashioned bell on the old-fashioned door rang with a wry ‘ting!’ as I entered the shop.
“Hello!” said Elderly Martha, who was behind the counter, waiting expectantly for customer’s requests.
We exchanged knowing nods and I began the serious conversation, just like this…
“Have you got any euphemisms in yet?” I asked hopefully.
“I’ll just have a look round the back” Elderly Martha replied, twisting her neck, owl-like, to see. “Not a sausage.” she quothed “But, I’ve got a ripe pear.”
“I bet you have.” I responded. I couldn’t help myself; Elderly Martha was seventy, or had at least passed the state of sixty-nine some years hence.
“Now you hold your tongue, you young whippersnapper, you! Or would you like me to hold it for you?” she beamed her amusement at me.
“I can hold my own, quite well, thank you.” was my riposte.
She laughed at my manhood joke.
“That’ll be two large ones and a tiny one.” she ascertained, as she billed me – spitting it out!
I handed over the money and we said our fondue farewells.