George aka King George was George. You could tell he had been George since he sprouted in Bulgaria; to the moment he was picked by wife Milka in Greece. Back in those days, George always wore white T-shirts and matching budgie smugglers- an extra inch of fabric passed them as shorts. George began each day as a blank canvas, allowing his profession to shine in the brightest of reds. He was always covered in tomato. Even Milka’s friends turned up their noses when she pointed out the man of her desire, suggesting that he was ‘dirty’.
George’s umbrella was innocent. It was clean of any advertising jargon or horror film slime. It felt far more nurturing than the opposing umbrella across the road at The House of Tomato. In fact, everything about George’s stall felt warmer; the assistance button, the lawn, his open shed full of tomato production, alongside he himself- the man- George. Even the slightly overpriced empty cucumber bucket felt warm. Cucumbers one wouldn’t mind paying an arm and a leg for.
What makes someone a home in comparison to a house varies. Tomatoes aside. Some housed in houses never seek home, yet some in homes undeniably feel housed. If a home seeks another home does that make them a house with a mask or a fence sitter? There are no instructions for homelife; nor any feng shui rules. A little curiosity is all it takes to become an executive interior designer within your own abode. Who’s to say the feeling of home is the same for George as it is for me?
A stray bicycle caught George’s attention before my own, and, without hesitation he grabbed my arm. Saving me from a ‘would be’ collision. Midway through all the commotion- when my bike awareness decided to spring into action- the bike looked as a passing butterfly. I knew it was a bike, yet somehow bike/human crash was not on radar. It’s not that everything is butterfly drifty, but when it is -it usually is- when it’s not it’s snot. If George, sorry King George- the name he clearly told me he preferred- wanted to look heroic, touch me, or just acted out of sheer care for his customers is unknown.
‘give me one second, I be back, you wait, yes?’
George with his left eye sty and now noticeable limp, rushed off to the adjoining shed to grab something. Upon his return, he delicately placed a gift for me on the edge of his shop front home. A cucumber.
Don’t you know- I heard it though the tomatovine
that King George’s tomatoes are mighty fine
It’s taken 6 months before I felt to stop at the other side of the road to gather this story. I’m sure I purchased many- a- tomato from many- a- market during that period, mostly in tins, as raw tomato during winter doesn’t fill the stomach brief. Another feeling based scenario. It’s interesting because this ‘Home of Tomatoes’ is on the side I pass almost every day, whereas ‘The House of Tomatoes’ rests on the latter.
When I am out of words, I delight in other pursuits. When I am inundated with colour, I spread it. When monochromatic states convert eyes into blinds; I go within & see what’s on offer. When I feel shy, I tend to retreat. When I feel open, I tend to share. There is no fiction here. For onlookers change in weather is usually judged accordingly. It has always been the most debilitating thing in my life, and in turn crippled my desire to be me- many a times. Just because there is rain, doesn’t mean there is gloom, nor does the emergence of sun determine smiles. Bums mean poo as much as comfortable sitting; they are also gorgeous in song. Judgement is one thing that has always poked my heart the wrong way. I try to understand it a little better each day, or more so just accept it from a compassionate viewpoint, and, in that regard this home is feeling more at home, within this temporary worldhome.