The Quest For Sprouts

'So...whaddaya want to do today?'

'Well, I'm volunteering at the community centre at 2.30. Other than that...' There was a tiny sigh from d. 'We should go shopping.'

'Must we?'

'I can't keep giving you stewed tomatoes every night.'

'You really can. I love 'em.' (I'd eaten two bowlfuls last night, because, y'know, gluttony).

'I know you do. But you'll have rampant acid if I keep feeding you those.'

'Ach...'

All of this was in bed this morning, before either of us had dared peek a toe out from under the duvet.

The wind and driving rain battered against the windows.

'How about sprouts?' I bartered. 'There's always sprouts.'

'There isn't,' murmured d. 'I looked in Tesco yesterday, not a sprout to be had. That's why we'll have to go shopping.'

'Ah, but I tried the Spar,' I said, referring to a chain corner store which also now functions as the local post office. 'They have frozen button sprouts there.'

The wind howled, as if on cue.

'So...we don't have to get dressed and go out there? Not yet, anyway?'

'Nope,' I said. 'I'll go walking later. And as Spar is my witness, we'll never go sproutless again.'

'Awesome,' said d, snuggling under the duvet for another couple of minutes.

So - hoorah for flavour diversity while Disappearing - went walking (it had mellowed significantly by then, though for some reason not unconnected with walking across beaches and streams, I still put me wellies on. The beach clearly counts as a short cut, cos I only managed 7719 steps todday), got sprouts, brought sprouts home, laid them gently in the freezer. We were all out of velvet cushions, sadly, but it was that sort of a moment.

I admit it's not much of a heroic quest, but be honest, if I told you about the dragon waiting to buy postal orders and feast upon the virgins of the village, or the dwarvish slate miners protesting against the new speed restrictions on the road at Wiseman's Bridge, or the Hellmouth under the Lounge coffee bar...well, you'd only think I was making it up, wouldn't you?