The cucumber tale

Cuteness overload

So. A, as we’ve agreed to call him, told me what sounded like a VERY tall story VERY early on in our relationship (although AFTER the dancing-class story, which we’ll save for a rainy day) about his allergy (?) to cucumbers.

It originated, legend (?) has it, in a phone box in Hull. Which, we were told, was the only city in the UK to have an independent telephone system whose phone booths (I’m aware this is Chinese to the younger set) had doors that opened by folding inwards instead of outwards.

Long story short, he stopped to make a call (in the days when we didn’t have mobile phones, lordy lord) and someone had left a paper bag in the booth. While he was waiting to be connected (ask your elders), he peered inside the bag (in the days before bombs, masks, dinosaurs) to discover two cucumbers. And such was his horror-slash-allergy (?) that he fainted.

He came to, to find the Hull police struggling to remove the door from its hinges. He managed to unwedge himself, stood up, opened the door (inwards), insisted he didn’t need an ambulance, thanked them profusely and walked back to his car (in the days before health & safety). Just as he was driving off, one of the policemen ran after him shouting: “you’ve forgotten your shopping, Sir!” (In the days when they weren’t so busy tasering etc.)

Anyway, all this to say, I fed him cucumber once. In a soup or something. Quite nervously, I must confess, although I was VERY cross with him at the time. But he didn’t pass out or even throw up. In fact he didn’t actually notice. So I think, maybe, the cucumber story was fake news. But then you wonder: why? why??

But you can check Hull: that’s true.