She was feeling strangely warm, in spite of the chill in the air.  She looked across to the herb shelf, and with an inappropriate degree of zestfulness, loudly observed: ‘Isn’t it a little odd that we eat fruit and monkeys eat fruit?’

Old green eyes had been snoozing, bored with his day thus far.  He wouldn’t normally raise his lazy, hazy head to respond, afterall there was nothing in it for him.  “What the heck”, he thought… as he shouted back:  ‘Because they are our closest relatives,’

On hearing Basil’s laid-back but slightly ear-shattering voice (of course, she has no ears!), she wobbled a little in her crate.  ’So why don’t apes mess up the planet like us?’, she responded.

‘Because they haven’t evolved a fore-brain… only basal ganglian.  So they don’t really make choices….not yet anyway.’  By now she was beginning to roll quite noticeably.

‘We have basal ganglians?  Sounds very.. erm… very …sexy!’  By now, her rugged, veined skin was positively moist!

Basil pricked up:  ‘Are you by any chance picturing hangy bits and lumpy things of a base nature?’  His leafy outgrowth was full, lush and alive now.


At which point, at precisely 19.11 hours on a hot Friday evening, Ocimum Basilicum leapt over the organic fruit display, grabbed Melony and squashed her until she exploded …. Leaving just a little puddle of juice and some rather messy pink flesh on the floor, concealed behind the sign which read, ‘FRUIT AISLE’.  And so it was.

Basil straightened his stalk, dragged himself between the legs of Mr McNab, the store security guard, and, as he laid back amongst all the other herberts, he rolled some grass.. and in a moment of primitive, but nonetheless significant, speculation he considered the following ….

‘If there’s a herbivore god, would It consider healthy botanical cross-fertilisation to be immoral?’  He pondered this for about .037 of a second then decided,’ What the heck, screwing a melon is no bad thing, and it beats sucking a lemon’.

Sophie LeBoeuf entered Battersby’s Fruit Aisle at 19.13 hours on a balmy Friday evening in June, hoping to meet the man of her dreams.  She raised her neatly plucked eye-brow as she picked up a bunch of smouldering Sweet Basil, and was overcome by the rather heady smell.  As she looked up she saw something that she will remember for the rest of her life!

Sophie was 69, on that summer’s afternoon in 2010, the year of our Lord.


About dordognemouth

I came to live in the Dordogne... with hope in my heart and a packet of gingernuts in my saddle bag. I had heard that all the British were going back, so I was anticipating a life full of French knickers and Chantilly. I was looking for froufrou and vavavoom! I'm not yet disappointed, but mostly surprised by the Dordogne underworld that I'm uncovering. If I ever get back to Blighty... Look for me in Wetherspoons (any), sporting a beret and spouting French place names just to impress. My real name is Pat, (but I have to keep that low key, less I become the brunt of ex-pat jokes) and I'm nearly 3 years old. I have Irish humour and dried up eyes from too much squinting in the Dordogne wind and rain! Join me.. please!!

Posted on January 7, 2014, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

  1. You wonderfully mad as a hatter and I love your blog!

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