The recipe

There he was like a lone bean pole standing almost erect, mesmerised by the procession of vegetables on parade before him. “Fffffffffff…what was that recipe again?” he wondered as the root section marched by. Gosh, it seemed like a maternity but was in fact only a few seaweeds before realisation penetrated his puzzlement: “Text Jen,” it whispered in its best Yul Brynner voice. How David and the vegetables all screamed and danced for joy when they saw the recipe come surfing along the crest of the astral wave proceeding from Jen’s ethereal fingertips into the palm of David’s outstretched relief. He strode triumphantly to the indifferent till, recipe held aloft for all iphones to see, paid the ball and socket girl the four and twenty bank notes then strode proudly into the bright afterlubrious sunshine

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