It all started one sunny Saturday
morning when Harold decided to visit the farmers’ market. He liked the market
because it gave him a chance to chat with the locals—or at least try to. As he
wandered past the stalls, a vendor called out to him.
“Would you like to try some fresh apples, sir?” she asked,
holding up a basket of shiny red fruit.
Harold blinked, squinting in confusion. “What’s that? Fresh
what? Freckles?”
The vendor looked puzzled. “No, apples. Fresh apples!”
Harold nodded sagely. “Ah, yes, I’ve heard good things about
wrestling tackles. But I’ll pass today, thank you.”
He strolled off, leaving the vendor shaking her head,
wondering what in the world “wrestling tackles” had to do with apples.
Next, Harold spotted his neighbour, Margaret, across the
market. She waved cheerfully. “Morning, Harold! How’s the garden coming along?”
Harold cupped a hand to his ear. “Pardon? You want to know
if I’m wearing a thong?”
Margaret’s smile faltered. “What? No! I asked about your
garden!”
Harold grinned, giving her a thumbs-up. “Oh, don’t you
worry, Margaret. I don’t go in for that sort of thing. Strictly boxers for me!”
Margaret quickly made an excuse to leave, muttering
something about needing more carrots.
Undeterred, Harold continued his way through the market. He
approached a stall selling handmade candles, eager to buy something for his
wife, Mabel. The vendor smiled and said, “These are lavender-scented.
Great for relaxing.”
Harold tilted his head. “I see. They’re for axing?”
The vendor blinked. “No, relaxing. You know, to help you
unwind.”
Harold’s eyes widened. “Oh, heavens! No, I don’t need
candles for hacking things up. Mabel’s already hidden the hatchet after that
hedge-trimming incident!”
The vendor wisely decided not to ask any follow-up questions
and simply nodded as Harold wandered off.
The day continued in much the same fashion. At the cheese
stall, he told the cheesemonger he was “definitely not into teething,” when
offered some brie to taste. And at the flower stall, he kindly declined an
offer for “roses for your wife” because he was “definitely not interested in
rubbing toes with my wife.”
Harold ambled further down the market and stopped at a stand
selling fresh bread. The baker greeted him warmly. “Good morning! Fancy a loaf?
This one’s a lovely sourdough.”
Harold squinted at the loaf and frowned. “Did you just ask
if I’d like to marry a toad?”
The baker stared at him in disbelief. “Uh, no, sir. I said
sourdough.”
Harold threw his hands up. “Well, I’m flattered, but I’m
already married, and to a lovely woman at that! No need for amphibious
proposals, thank you!” He gave the baker a knowing wink and hurried off.
Further along, Harold stopped at a table piled high with
jams and preserves. The vendor smiled brightly and held up a jar. “How about
some strawberry jam? Just made fresh this morning!”
Harold tilted his head. “Strawberry ham? No, no, I’m off
pork for a while. Doctor’s orders.”
“Jam!” she corrected, a little more forcefully. “Strawberry
jam!”
Harold scratched his head. “No need to get aggressive about
it. If I wanted ham, I’d just go to the butcher. But thank you for the offer.”
Harold stopped by the seafood stand, where a young
fishmonger was busy arranging freshly caught mackerel. “Morning, sir! Care for
some haddock today?”
Harold frowned. “You want me to add up today? What, like
maths? I didn’t come here to do sums, young man. I came here for a relaxing
stroll!”
The fishmonger blinked. “No, haddock. You know, the fish.”
Harold nodded, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Ah, yes, bad
luck. Well, that’s just life, isn’t it? Can’t do much about that.” He gave the
fishmonger a consoling pat on the arm and wandered off.
Eventually, Harold reached the coffee cart.
“Hi there! Can I get you a latte?” the barista asked, trying
to enunciate as clearly as possible.
Harold leaned in. “What’s that? You want me to get a cat
today?”
The barista blinked. “No, latte. You know, coffee?”
Harold’s face brightened. “Ah, you want to talk about fate
today! Well, I do like a good philosophical discussion.” He glanced around
conspiratorially before leaning in closer. “I’ll tell you, I don’t think much
of it. Fate, I mean. Far too overrated. Everything’s a coincidence if you ask
me!”
The barista, now completely bewildered, simply nodded,
handing him a cup of black coffee without further explanation. Harold tipped
his hat, took a sip, and gave her a satisfied smile. “Ah, fate indeed.”
As the sun began to dip behind the clouds and the market
wound down, Harold made his way home, thoroughly pleased with his outing. He
had declined several strange offers—wrestling tackles, amphibian matrimony,
axing candles—and managed to avoid an existential discussion about bad luck
fish.
When he arrived home, Mabel was waiting in the kitchen, her
eyebrow raised as she saw the strange assortment of items Harold had brought
back from the market: a single parsnip, a jar of mustard (which Harold had
mistaken for jam), and what appeared to be an umbrella he’d somehow picked up
along the way.
“How was the market, dear?” she asked, knowing full well
what to expect.
Harold beamed. “Oh, the usual. I refused to marry a toad, turned down some wrestling equipment, and had a rather enlightening chat about fate with a coffee seller. All in all, a successful day.”
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