I need a cucumber.
The Irish one is cooking a curry tonight that his ex girlfriends mother taught him how to make when they all went to blah blah blah together and her perfect hair and stupid long skinny legs went with them and blah blah blah, and some more blah.
Don’t you hate hearing the stories of ex’s?
I don’t want to know where you learnt to cook it, if it involves her!!
Just cook the damn thing and lie!
Tell me you learnt to make it in India while talking to a rabbit, I honestly won’t ask!
I just want to eat it without being subjected to the mental images of her, her mum and you all frolicking in the past! (Hang on, I didn’t mean him, her mum and her having… As far as I am aware that never happened… you know what? Lets move on.)
Anyway, enough about that.
He is making a curry tonight and needs a cucumber.
Which immediately raises up all my cucumber related anxiety.
Which is quite a lot in all honesty.
‘You forgot to buy the cucumber when you did the million pound shop, new kettle – yes, but no cucumber, so can you please nip and buy one when you get chance today please?’
He repeats the second please as if to remind me that he is still very cross about the new kettle, that as if by buying that instead of a cucumber I have personally insulted him.
‘Otherwise the Raita (yoghurty side gloop) will be rubbish and I like my yoghurty side gloop (Raita) to be tasty and crunchy. Love you!’ He shouts blowing us a kiss as he flies out the door, already late for work.
(BECAUSE HE CAN NEVER FIND ANYTHING IN THE MORNING SO IS ALWAYS RUNNING LATE AFTER SHOUTING ‘WHERE IS THIS? WHERE IS THAT?’ AND WHY IS IT ALWAYS MY FAULT HE CANT FIND STUFF?? PUT STUFF WHERE YOU WILL REMEMBER YOU PUT IT!!! Idiot…. Anyway I digress…)
I stand with Addison in my arms, slowly rocking back and forth and close my eyes in horror.
Please don’t make me buy a cucumber.
Addison slaps me across the face.
‘Get a grip woman!’ he seems to be saying but instead screeches ‘CAR! NANA! POO DOODLE!’
‘Yes son, I agree’ I say rubbing my stinging face and placing him down to run for his car nana poo doodle (breakfast) ‘You are right.’ I need to get a grip. (Also the slapping thing? This is new. How do I get him to stop? ‘No!’ doesn’t seem to be cutting it! Supernanny candidate? I hope so.)
I will get to the point.
Surely I am not the only one who thinks buying a cucumber is excruciatingly embarrassing?
I mean, I know when its done as part of a big shop it isn’t so bad, but going in to the supermarket for a cucumber and a bottle of wine? (Which we also need.)
Well that’s just asking for a raised eyebrow off the check out staff isn’t it?
I don’t like buying cucumbers at the best of times to be honest.
They are one of those phallic type veg that I just do not enjoy the shape of, and because I do not relish the shape of them, when I am picking one, I inevitably end up giggling, blushing and stammering like that girl out of that book which did the rounds at school. You know the one.
It was worn in by generations of young innocent females gasping and gawking at what was written in black and white on page 72.
So heavy fingered was this shocking and dramatic page, that it was as if the book itself had resigned itself to the fact it would never be read properly and just used to fall open directly on to the juicy bit, which memorably was just as the teenage boy’s willy, which I will never forget he had nicknamed Ralph, began leaking all over the teenage girl character’s (interestingly I cant remember her name) nightie.
Forever by Judy Blume.
That’s the one.
And can I ask while we are on this subject?
Why in the hell did the teenage boy character name his willy Ralph anyway?
Why name is at all?
To a teenage girl that is just adding unnecessary confusion surely?
Well it confused me.
First time I ever saw a willy, (I really hope my parents or my elderly aunty doesn’t read this post) as if I wasn’t traumatized enough by the horror of it all, thinking I was way cool and in the know about all things willy related, (thanks Judy Blume) I then proceeded to ask the boy what it was called.
Can you imagine his confusion?
And then mine?
Awful. Just AWFUL.
And it wasn’t like I was going to talk to it or grow attached for god’s sake so why name it???
I am so positively childish that I find buying a cucumber more embarrassing than selecting and then purchasing a job load of Tena lady or even Tampax.
Reminding myself that Therapy has taught me to be honest, I switch Cbeebies on for Addison and pick up my phone.
He answers after the second ring.
‘Irish one, I am not buying the cucumber’ I state clearly, channeling my inner lion.
‘We need wipes as well’ he replies, seemingly not hearing my roar.
A cucumber, wine and wipes?
Is he trying to kill me?
‘Irish one,’ I say trying not to laugh ‘There is no way in hell, I am walking up to the till in Morrison’s with a cucumber, a bottle of wine and some wipes’
‘Why not?’ he asks confused, while I nearly cry laughing.
‘Think about it!’ I shout.
‘I have done and I don’t get it. Am I missing the joke here?’
I start to try and explain but he interrupts me, his voice dropping an octave.
‘We need some condoms too.’
I throw my head back and howl.
‘What?’ he asks, confused but trying to be assertive (confused and assertive, not a good combination!)
‘Are you serious?’ I spurt out in between gaspfuls of hilarity ‘you want me to walk up to the VERY BUSY check outs at Morrison’s, in the middle of the afternoon and buy condoms, wine, a cucumber and some wipes?’
‘Yes.’ He states matter of factly before finishing the call ‘I don’t know what is so funny but I have to go now. Love you.’
An hour later after I have got Addison dressed, tried and re-tried in my head over and over again to make the shopping list sound less seedy and more motherly, blushing just thinking about what the check out girl or boy might think I am planning, I get a text message.
PMSL. MENTALIST. I WILL BUY THE CUCUMBER. LOVE YOU.
Thank god for that, I think putting my phone down just as it beeps again.
BUT YOU BUY CONDOMS OK? I AM NOT STANDING AT THE CHECK OUT HOLDING A CUCUMBER AND CONDOMS.
The man has a point.
Another win for therapy.
Hang on… Condoms?
It’s not christmas yet is it?
*(As in we only have sex once a year, and maybe that’s christmas, like the old saying, ‘its not christmas yet is it?’ nothing to do with santa or baubles or boots or mrs christmas or someone coming down the chimney… you know what? Ill shut up now. You know what I mean.)