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    The Sexiest Elbows I'd Ever Seen
    The Sexiest Elbows I'd Ever Seen
    The Sexiest Elbows I'd Ever Seen
    Ebook55 pages44 minutes

    The Sexiest Elbows I'd Ever Seen

    By David Hadley

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    About this ebook

    When we first met she was Emeritus Professor of Post-Colonial Marmalade at the University of Ffestiniog, and she had the sexiest elbows I had ever seen. We met at the Annual Ffestiniog Tapioca-Ignoring Convention, back in the late summer of ’83. [....] 

    So, begins one of the greatest love stories of our age told here for the first time in ebook form. 

    This collection also contains several other stories of equal import, such as: 

    'Shropshire Smith and the Temple of Vegetables'. 

    'The Famed Vegetable Killer of Grimsby'. 


    'The Dancing Sex Nuns of the Tenth Quadrant'. 

    Plus other stories, the like of which you will never have read before.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDavid Hadley
    Release dateMay 9, 2015
    ISBN9781513010731
    The Sexiest Elbows I'd Ever Seen
    Author

    David Hadley

    A bloke who writes stuff. Fiction across and between genres.David Hadley was born in 1959. He is married with three children and lives in the Black Country, UK. He worked in the building trade and the electric supply industry. He has been a rock musician, mature student, house-husband and stay-at-home dad. 

    Read more from David Hadley

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      Book preview

      The Sexiest Elbows I'd Ever Seen - David Hadley

      The Vegetables of Darkness

      ‘The marrow, the marrow,’ she said in a voice that will haunt me every time I pass a greengrocery or walk the lonely, haunted vegetable aisle of a supermarket.

      Back in those days, of course, an allotment was a wild and dangerous place. A place for adventurers and those not afraid of the wild and savage heart of the artichoke.

      Brassica Legume had that look of someone with a deep knowledge and understanding of the secret ways of vegetables; someone who had looked deep into the heart of the vegetable rack and survived all that it could do to her. If I was not mistaken, sometimes I thought I could see the fading leek scars on her elbows.

      Due to a disappointment in romance I had turned towards the dark and forbidden need to grow vegetables. I had experimented with seed boxes and potted seedlings on my window ledge as a teenager, of course. But I had never wanted to become involved in gardening, not until that day I met Brassica Legume.

      I thought that we, Brassica and I, would - one day in the not too distant future - take up a small plot of land together. Then come our weeding day we would spend the rest of our lives working together in that garden. Maybe even – one day – growing some cauliflowers together.

      However, it was not to be.

      One day I turned up at Brassica’s door and there in her porch I asked her to close her eyes. I whipped out my prize courgette and told her – without opening her eyes – to feel it.

      She put out a slow, tentative hand. But, as soon as her hand touched my courgette, she screamed and ran back into the house, slamming the door in my face.

      I banged on the door and begged her to let me in, let me explain. She just screamed something mystifying about me seeing a doctor as soon as possible and to ‘keep away from me with that… that thing!’ If I ever came near again, and asked her to touch it like that, she would ‘have me arrested’.

      Perplexed by her behaviour, I gave up. I tucked my courgette away and walked out of her life - I thought - forever.

      Then, a few weeks later, I met Brassica out on the street. She was carrying a suitcase and – eventually – let me walk with her for a while. I tried to apologise, but I could tell she was not really listening to me.

      That was the day she left; leaving me on a bleak and windy railway station platform. She rode off to some distant horticultural adventure with another man she had met through the personal adverts in the back of a seed catalogue.

      Then, several years later, I received a letter from Brassica, covered with mulch stains. A pressed dried cabbage leaf I’d once given her as a romantic keepsake fell from the envelope I hastily tore open when I recognised her handwriting.

      In the letter, she begged me to come to her aid. So I dropped everything, then picked it up again.

      I ran for the train station.

      She had – according to the letter I re-read sitting in the train – married the man from the advert in the personal column of the seed catalogue. Apparently, this Herr Doktor Sproutz was a world authority on vegetables with a professorship at the nearby University of Cudworth. They had settled down in a picturesque country cottage to grow vegetables together. All had been well at first, until he began sneaking back to their allotment at night.

      At first, she’d

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