A veg stall in Stratford-upon-Avon.

Tom: I love the colour of your hands. You don’t see hands that red these days.

Joe: Well, I see them quite a bit.

Tom: Real manual labour hands, aren’t they? We’ve all got these soft, office-worker hands.

Joe: That’s two quid for the tomatoes.

Tom: Exactly two quid? I’m good at this. I could do your job for you, couldn’t I?

Joe: Probably not. [Pause]

Tom: I love shopping local. I used to have an organic vegetable box delivered, but I had to stop. All that kale.

Joe: I like kale.

Tom: I love kale. Couldn’t eat it for every meal, though.

Joe: I could.

Tom: Yes, I guess I could have tried. Are your potatoes local?

Joe: Local enough. They’re not from bloody Spain.

Tom: I had some lovely produce in Spain.

Joe: I’m not a big fan of Spanish fruit.

Tom: Of course. Your potatoes look nice. Bit dirty, though.

Joe: They come from the dirt.

Tom: Sure. But now they come from you.

Joe: You don’t have to eat the dirt, mate.

Tom: But, you see, the dirt adds to the weight. It all adds up.

Joe: Does it now?

Tom: Maybe you could give me a dirt discount?

Joe: Would you like a dirt discount?

Tom: It’s terrible that everything’s individually wrapped in the supermarkets now. Every green pepper.

Joe: It’s disgusting is what it is.

Tom: But then, on the other hand, their vegetables are very clean.

Joe: You want me to rub these potatoes clean for you?

Tom: Um. [Pause] No. I’ll pick some up later.


The visitor’s gallery of the European Parliament in Brussels.
A café in Paris, 20th arrondissement.
The paint aisle.
A downtown café.
A large hardware store.
A laneway.
A path through a forest of old cedars.
A cafe in Oregon.
A used bookstore.
In Christian heaven.
At the home of a crossword puzzle setter.
Outside a car dealership.
The Salish Sea.
A cafeteria.
In a forest.