The Leweston Cucumber

Dorset. Rolling countryside, dairy, arable and equestrian farming, historic locations, buildings and customs. Home to ancient estates, manors of landed gentry, hallowed fee-paying schools for the progeny thereof, pre-Roman fortifications and some of the best fossil-hunting land anywhere. And home to Grandma and Grandad no longer. Twenty years before my most recent rebirth, I clearly remember her relating to me this tale of hope, denial, and things being swept under the carpet. (Wilton being close by) Not a sniper's bullet from their old house sits a posh public school for girls who don't have to ask the price.
Near the school gates lies a village whose shop supplied all manner of locally grown produce to Ooos and Arrrs alike but was ordered by the Headmistress to stop selling carrots, corncobs, courgettes and cucumbers to the bright young ladies of this laudable academy. I can't think why, growing girls need their five-a-day just like anyone else. Perhaps it's anything beginning with C. I wonder if they banned cauliflowers too.
Anyway, today Erin and I were chosen to represent the school in a district-wide gymnastics competition at the big gym centre where I go anyway. This sounds really good until you add that 12 kids from each class are going so you'd have to be as clever as a pickled gherkin not to be chosen. But we like it anyway. After paid-for Gymnastics, I attempted to make a Ninja Secret Agent Toolbelt out of toilet rolls and an advent arch presentation box. It didn't go well. Jof and I both got very angry but he wisely chose to wash up instead.