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Plums

Stopping for plums on Henderson Valley Road the other day:

Me <parking bicycle and Jed>: Hi! I’d like some of your plums.

The Plum Man: How many bags?

Me: Just the one, thanks.

The Plum Man: Would you like two bags?

Me: Um, no thanks.

The Plum Man: If you’d eat them, you can have another bag. Free of charge.

Me: Oh! Oh, that’s terribly kind of you, but I have to cycle up the hill you see, and . . .

The Plum Man: So you’ll take two bags?

Me: Thank you, but no, really. I don’t want to carry too much weight or I’ll never get home-

The Plum Man: What if I put them in a box?

Me: I- I don’t- it’s just that- um- what?

The Plum Man: I’ll put them in a box for you.

Me: That’s- well, I’m sure they’ll be fine in my basket-

The Plum Man <looking horrified>: But they’ll get bruised! You can’t have that!

Me: Well, if you- if you think so . . .

The Plum Man <drops two bags of plums into an empty wine box, whereupon they promptly fall out the bottom>: Hmm. I’ll just tape up the bottom of it for you.

Me <scraping plum puree off the pavement>: Thanks.

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