Bucket To Greece Volume 11 by V.D. Bucket

Author:V.D. Bucket [Bucket, V.D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HP
Published: 2021-05-04T23:00:00+00:00

It was late morning by the time we finally rolled up at the market. Considering that Violet Burke appeared to subsist on a diet of Fray Bentos, chips, mushy peas, and Spam, I couldn’t help but question her insistence on stopping by the market for some nice fresh seasonal vegetables.

“You’re welcome to any of the fresh produce from my garden,” I assured her as I parked the Punto.

“Surely you don’t begrudge me a walk round the market…”

“Of course not. I was just thinking about your swollen feet…”

“Never you mind my feet. Just point me in the direction of the nearest lav.”

“Right there.” Before I had the chance to point out that she may prefer to hold on until we could locate more suitable toilets than the hole in the floor antiquities at the market, she strode off, leaving me holding her enormous handbag. Trying to look nonchalant as I lurked outside the women’s toilets wearing a ladies’ hat and carrying a handbag, I was nearly bowled over as Violet Burke marched out, telling me off for directing her to the gents.

“I didn’t, that is the ladies.”

Muttering to herself, she turned on her heel, disappearing back inside. When she finally emerged ten minutes later, she barked at me to dig out the bottle of bleach in her handbag.

“I might have been brought up with an outside privy, lad, but I’ve never had to hover over a porcelain hole in the floor before. I can’t see loos like that catching on. Have you found that bleach yet? I couldn’t work out how to use that lav without piddling all over my shoes.”

Snatching the bottle of bleach from my hand, she splashed a liberal amount over her lace-ups. Chuntering non-stop under her breath, she marched off, leaving a puddle of bleach in her wake.

Striding past the meat market, Violet Burke halted abruptly.

“Do you want to buy some meat?” I asked.

“I can’t see what I’m after,” she complained, giving a wide berth to a bloody carcass swinging from a hook. “Ask one of them butcher fellows if they’ve got any Spam put by, lad. ‘Appen they keep it rationed.”

“You won’t find tins of Spam in the meat market, Mother,” I said, making a mental note to ask Benjamin to sneak some Spam over in his suitcase when he flew over for his granny’s birthday bash. No doubt she would be over the moon if her grandson wrapped a dozen tins of Spam and presented them as her birthday gift.

“I can’t understand why Spam and tins of corned beef haven’t caught on over here. They’re a sight less messy than these bloody lumps of flesh for sale here,” she said, adroitly stepping over a puddle of blood dripping from a swinging lump of butchered meat.

“The Greeks don’t appear to be big on meat in a tin.” I said. “Though Cynthia is a big fan of processed sausages in brine. She bulk buys them in Lidl.”

“Aye, Barry’s mentioned her feeble attempts at toad-in-the-hole. I wouldn’t feed a briney wiener to that dog of Moira’s,” she sneered, her face rumpled with disgust.

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