and drowned?
Mordred and Petal O’Hare clearly take their veganism extremely seriously. To an almost ridiculous extent in Mordred’s case.
I had better be careful here. The boots I’m wearing are made of leather, and I had a ham toastie for breakfast. If the angry hedge smells either on me, it may attack.
‘Shall we go and have a chat about what PR services we can provide for you?’ I say to them both, steering things back on to a track that does not involve leeks, or the insects that feed upon them.
‘Yes!’ Petal agrees, clapping her hands together.
Mordred looks almost disappointed by this. It’s quite clear who is the businessperson in this relationship.
‘Do come on through,’ Petal tells me, walking towards a door at the rear of the industrial unit. I follow along again, with Mordred bringing up the rear. This is as unnerving as it sounds. Mordred would loom even without all that hair and beard.
Petal leads me through the door into a small room that is more lounge space than office. There’s a small desk parked over in one corner with a laptop, a kettle and some cups on it, but most of the room is taken up by a couple of old, battered-looking chesterfield sofas, with an equally antique coffee table between them. On the coffee table is a small hotplate, on which rest three bowls, all covered with white cloths.
Hmmm.
‘Please, sit down,’ Petal bids me. ‘Would you like some herbal tea?’
‘Um. Is it hemp?’ I ask, in a worried tone.
‘No. Jasmine and chamomile.’
‘Then yes, please.’
I park my bottom on one of the chesterfields, while Mordred sits on the one opposite. As Petal makes the tea I try not to look directly at the angry hedge (because that way probably lies moth-related madness), and instead look down at the coffee table, where I get a closer look at those three bowls.
I’m no Nostradamus, but I feel quite sure that the contents of the bowls are going to be a part of my very near future.
Lovely.
Petal brings over a cup of sweet-smelling tea and puts it in front of me, before squeezing herself next to her enormous husband on the other sofa.
Both of them then stare at me intently.
It’s something they are extremely good at.
I take it that this is my cue to start my pitch for Viridian PR’s services, and I open the folder on my knees.
‘Well, first of all, thank you very much for inviting me here today,’ I begin. ‘I’m excited to be here, to share what excellent promotional services we can offer you.’
‘That all sounds lovely, Ms Cooke. But first, it’s time for the butternut,’ Petal says.
‘Pardon me?’
‘The butternut,’ she repeats.
‘The butternut,’ Mordred echoes.
‘The butternut?’ I also say, feeling a bit flummoxed. I have a whole spiel prepared here, why must I be interrupted with random vegetables?
Petal leans forward and whisks off the white cloth on the bowl to my left. Underneath, I see that the bowl is full of small brown cubes, covered in grit.
‘We have traditions here, Viridian PR,’ Mordred tells me, folding his arms.
Petal lightly biffs him on the shoulder with her hand. ‘Her name is Ms Cooke, Mordred. Try to be nice.’ Then she faces me again. ‘When we were in the Amazon basin, we picked up a lovely local custom that the indigenous people have had for centuries.’
‘Did you,’ I reply in a flat tone.
‘Yes indeed. We share our food before any conversation. As a way of welcoming you into our home and our livelihood.’
‘Right.’
‘So please . . . enjoy the butternut. It is replete with vitamins A and C, along with being an excellent source of fibre and potassium.’
‘Yes, it is. The butternut,’ Mordred again repeats, like this is some kind of religious ceremony – which, given just how vegan these two clearly are, it probably is.
Have you eaten butternut squash? It tastes like a depressed potato.
I gingerly pick out one cube of the orange squash and hold it in front of me, examining it. The cube is covered in what looks like sea salt and rosemary.
It’s mid-morning, for crying out loud. I want a cup of coffee and a croissant, not a cube of lightly seasoned vegetable.
Lightly seasoned vegetables have no business existing in the morning. Unless they’re baked beans, though they hardly qualify as a vegetable.
Nevertheless, I’m here to impress, so I pop the cube in my mouth and give it a chew. There’s a moment where my brain and my stomach both rebel against this rude intrusion