pubic transpurt

Long Road, Clapham Common

oh, why can’t we just have sex?

you like me and i like you

so why can’t we just do it?

yes, right here in this bus stop

ok, well, maybe not here

but somewhere close by

in the very near future

why can’t that happen?

i don’t understand

no, i don’t want to talk any more

and coffee gives me gas

dinner?  don’t push it, love

i just want to have it off with you

you know, in the old fashioned way

naked, just the two of us

no talking, only porking

a date? oh for fuck’s sake

the moment’s going, love

why can’t we just bang?

instead of holding hands

and me trying to make you laugh

and saying anything

literally, anything

to get your clothes off

things along the lines of

“yes, my favourite colour’s teal” and

“no, i want to take my time, too…”

do i shit!

all i want to do is hump you senseless

on the futon back at my flat

it would be great

we could do loooooads of jiggy jig

and then eat jaffa cakes

and watch Match of the Day

what do you say?

what do you mean you’ve got to go?

your bus is here?

the number eight?

brilliant, that’s near where i’m staying

we could bonk on the bus

if you’re running late

or on the steps of your house

if you really can’t wait

hey, don’t look at me like that

like i’m some dirty perv

only after one thing

what a nerve! As if!

is that what you think of me?

we’ve only just met

and all I can think of

is parting your legs?

that is pretty astute, to be fair

so, yeah…

is this going anywhere?

i didn’t think so

you made it quite clear

when you called the police

when i sniffed your hair

though, it’s not all bad

the cop shop’s right next to my gaff

i can walk home from there

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choux/fleur

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Well, well, well… what do we have here?

This, my friends, is a textbook bit of flirting in the fruit and veg aisle.

Allow me to introduce our players, meet Martin and Michelle.

Two healthy and comfortably wealthy middle-class American folk, from what I can gather.

Michelle is a single mum and part time teaching assistant and Martin is an engineer and a part time Jamie Oliver, by the sound of it.

I’m not being nosey, I haven’t got much choice in the matter; you see, I’m the one in the middle.  Yes, that’s right, the cauliflower.

Most people just call me cauliflower, but that’s actually my surname.  You can call me Terry.

To get you up to speed, apparently, (as if I were some delinquent teenager), Michelle doesn’t know what to “do with me.”

“So, there’s always the old faithful –  Cauliflower cheese?” Martin suggests, pointing lazily, I guess, in the vague direction of some cheese.

“Bit of bechamel, sharp cheddar, splash of worcester sauce…happy days!”

God, he really does think he’s Jamie Oliver.

Swinging her basket behind her, she inexplicably throws her head back and guffaws.  Martin, although taken aback by her overreaction, settles himself quickly and is about to continue when Michelle interrupts, at regrettable volume,

“I’ve never tried making it before, i’d be forever worried about making my sauce lumpy!”

With this saucy interjection, she has got not only his attention but that of the the entire grocery.

Also, she realises, the playful smile and come-to-bed eyes, they too were unnecessary.

“Oookay,” Martin manages, again to his credit, “ in that case, you could roast it with caraway and cumin or poach it in milk and a few star anise and then make a puree, it’s really easy.”

“‘…and I’ve never made it, but you can even make cauliflower couscous!”

God, this guy’s good.  If he wasn’t talking fifty ways about my imminent demise, I’d date him.

He’s making this look easy; impressively improvising on the world’s least interesting edible plant (I’m over it) and all the time, there’s no way he can’t be negotiating the elephant in the room.

Namely, that of all the vegetables on display to use as a flirting prop, she picks me.

Little ol’ Terry. A cauliflower.

For chrissakes, woman, there’s a whole freaking tray of zucchini right there! And melons are in season, I’m just saying.

“Oh, you’re sooo clever!” she coos, reaching over to rub his forearm, “I could never cook anything like that, I could burn a boiled egg!”  More shirt-rubbing, eyelash fluttering, a splash of coy sauce.

She’s picked up her game a bit, to be fair.

“Well, maybe I …could come over and cook for you sometime?” he asks, hopefully.

“Yes…I’d love that, thank you.” she purrs.

Swept up in the romance, I forget my manners and shout “Get in, my son!” and “Boooom!, but I’m unceremoniously dropped into the basket and wind up sandwiched between a bechamel sauce mix and a block of Canadian cheddar.  Hang about!  She has made it before!  Good girl!
These two vegetable lovers deserve each other, and I’m glad I was there to smooth the path of true love.  Just call me Terry, Cruciferous Cupid