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Zucchini and the art of environmental maintenance

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“One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,” William Shakespeare

“Hey, Natasha,” the editor of Sydney’s trashier daily paper called across the newsroom, a smirk on his overweight face, “Are you eco-curious?”

For me, an out and proud young journalist, this kind of banter was a tedious occupational hazard. But one I played along with so I would be accepted into the journalist team.

“Past the curious stage boss,” I said, faking a one of the boys’ smile.

“Bio-sexual, eco-femme or eco-butch?” he loudly asked, ensuring the interest of the whole newsroom.

Only female dates-de-jour picked me up after work. And surely even an older straight guy would notice my fondness for alice McCALL dresses. But, although being able to answer his own question, he waited, fisherman like, hoping for a bite.

I wasn’t nibbling. Who wants the world knowing she didn’t get what her boss meant by adding an eco-prefix?

With me not biting on his hook and his audience losing interest, he broke the silence making his intentions clear, “I want a Sunday feature article on this new eco-sexual identity. A self-called eco-slut, Fleur Honeysuckle, is living the hippy lifestyle in the Blue Mountains and eager for publicity. How about you pay her a visit Natasha and ingratiate yourself. Something well written in our taking the piss style.”

That gobsmacked me, my first Sunday feature was a major career milestone. As he knew that too, I expected a how-not-to-write for the Telegraph lecture was coming. And it was.

“Not like this piece of shite,” he began, peering at the offending article, “The eco-sexual identity is a sensual eco-logic which deconstructs heteronormative assumptions, so, unrepressed, you participate in sensorial mutuality with the more-than-human environment.”

On cue the newsroom’s Greek chorus tittered, but, as he was addressing me, I felt I needed to fight fire with fire.

“The more-than-human environment,” I said, with a knowing smirk, “You mean tree rooters, boss?”

“That’s my girl. Take the company’s four-wheel drive, you’ll need it in the backblocks.”

That Friday, on Blackheath’s outskirts, I found the rutted dirt road that zig-zagged precipitously down to the valley floor. I was excited and nervous; this was my big chance to write something memorable and climb the greasy pole that is journalism today.

A rougher dirt road took me along the valley floor, ending at a gate on which a sign, painted in green, read, ‘Privates. Discovering my E-spot.’

Set in a large paddock beyond the gate were a small homestead and sheds. Remnants of native bush, interspersed with gum trees, flourished between the paddock and a typical Blue Mountains’ ochre cliff face. Hitching up my dress, I clambered over the gate, delighted to have worn flats.

As I approached the house, a woman, presumably Fleur, rushed out. Naked, though she had kept her hat on; yet so not what I was expecting of an eco-slut. For a start, she was my age, around twenty-five, and totally gorgeous. Long auburn hair surrounded her pretty face, and her body, tanned, sculptured, and shaved, was a work of art.

The sway of her firm breasts mesmerized and then delighted when they pressed against me. Her arms encircled me as she said, “I’m Fleur, welcome to my ecorogenous zone. You must be Natasha, as pretty as a flower and younger too. My greendar is pinging, I am sure you will get ecosexuality as we become friends.”

She happened to be the most attractive woman I had interviewed, so I couldn’t deny that interest. But, as I reminded myself, being friends was a step to journalistic bias. Nevertheless, I needed to appear friendly to get my story, so I replied, “I am so eager to learn from you. Can I take notes as we talk?”

“Certainly, I use some unusual words. I so want you to understand the importance of environmental friskiness. Let’s start with clothes, we call ourselves advanced and yet put layers between us and nature.”

Reaching out, she undid the top button on my dress. When I stepped back shocked, my dress gaping, Fleur’s face clouded with disappointment.

“Natasha, clothes hinder your understanding of ecosexuality. Is it because you are menstruating?”

“Um no,” I stuttered, “Next weekend actually.”

“Oh,” Fleur replied, delightedly clapping her hands, “Same time as me. A shared gynecology is such a good omen.”

I jotted gynecology in my notebook next to ecorogenous and greendar, wondering if my sub-editor, Cynthia, a language perfectionist, would allow them.

Fleur continued, “My veggies nourish me. I love the ritual of returning my menses to the earth and nourishing them in return.”

I nodded encouragingly, hoping for a little more detail.

Fleur, however, took me literally and exclaimed, “We couldn’t biotop the ecopower of bleeding on the zucchini plants together next weekend.”

I wasn’t going there, so nodding, hopefully politely, l changed the subject, “Is eco-sexuality a form of ecofeminism?”

“Ecofeminism sometimes idealizes female characteristics. Saying earth mother, for instance, privileges the female although nature doesn’t. You should quote me on this; the ecosexual identity understands our Earth as a lover, not a mother.”

Earth lover bought to mind my boss laughing with approval at my tree rooter comment. Knowing he would expect tree sex in my article, I asked Fleur what Earth lover meant.

“At one end of the spectrum,” Fleur explained, “Ecosexuals start with environmentally friendly sex products, though many then have a more physical relationship with nature; skinny dipping, hiking naked, that kind of thing.”

“The other end of the spectrum?”

“Oh,” Fleur whispered conspiratorially, “Being sexually active with nature; masturbated by waterfalls, fucking trees, or rolling in grass clippings and vegetable peelings having a compostgasm.”

“My boss joked about tree rooters.”

“Ecosexuality can be the butt of jokes. I have a sense of humour, but that one I have heard a thousand times.”

There had been no sign of Fleur’s sense of humour in what was tracking as my weirdest ever interview. But, reminding myself not to be distracted by the sway of her breasts, I paused waiting for more.

“Let me show you my special places, then you will see beyond the cheap joke. Seriously, you will only understand ecosexuality if you experience it.”

Fleur reached over and undid another button on my dress. While experience might actually help me write more convincingly, I was nervous, having kept nudity for the bedroom. So, I reached for another cheap joke, “You won’t sacrifice me to the nature Gods?”

“You will be safe; I only sacrifice virgins.”

Our eyes locked and we burst out laughing.

“Okay, I am unsure what I am letting myself in for,” I said, undoing my dress which puddled at my feet, “And too focused on the usual journalistic shit. Quickly getting my story and moving onto the next mark.”

“We can get addicted to the stresses of modern life when we step away from nature. Take your time, lose your bra and panties, experience nature and you will feel better and write better.”

I slipped my bra and panties off as Fleur added, “Natasha is a textile name. Can I call you Nasturtium, a prettier natural name?”

A name change seemed even weirder but this was my first feature article so I nodded and Fleur added, “I will get a few things. Let’s talk while walking to the waterfall.”

When Fleur returned, wicker basket in hand, we set off across the field towards the bush that spread from the bottom of the cliff.

“It feels different without clothes at first,” Fleur said, supportively intertwining her fingers with mine, “Focus your senses; the sounds of the birds and insects, the feel of my hand in yours, the breeze tousling your hair and flowing across your skin, the sun warming your body particularly your breasts which, given those tan lines, rarely feel the sun.”

To my surprise I did unwind a little as I concentrated on my senses. Near the bush, the grass became longer and tickled the insides of my thighs.

“Feel the grass brushing your legs as it reaches for your sex, Nasturtium. Your clitoris exists for pleasure, so grass grazing your pussy is one of nature’s ways of stirring your sensuality.”

The cynic in me almost argued, presuming this a lame chat-up line. But I bit my tongue, gambling on Fleur’s promise that this experience might improve what I wrote.

Letting go of my hand, Fleur twirled ballerina-like across the grass, bending and sliding the longer blades across her sex as she spun. After scraping her pussy, the grasses straightened and glistened in the sun, smeared with a snail’s trail of her honey.

She smiled encouragingly and I twirled, less elegantly, though the grass tips. Their flick against my pussy was more delicious than expected which resulted in my own glistening snail’s trail. And my first inkling that I might have underestimated nature’s sensuality.

In the bush, Fleur hugged every blue gum tree, paying special attention to one growing around a burnt-out lightning strike in its trunk.

“I will disappoint your editor,” Fleur confided, “As living things trees like being touched but I don’t root them. While I respect the stamens of this world, penis and trees included, they don’t give me rapture like other parts of nature.”

“Female parts?”

“I’m not pistil exclusive if you see what I mean. Rather my sexuality is fully engaged when nature’s design has a pussy focus.”

Frankly, I didn’t get that, but, when I asked, she said, “Experience this Nasturtium. We can talk later about what isn’t clear.”

“What about the term eco-slut?”

“Oh, that just means I have a high ecolibido and am pollenamourous which can come across as an ecopolygamist. Just so you know, I identify as ecosexual and want an ecosexual life partner. But I am not a traditional slut, when I find the one who loves nature as much as me, I won’t be letting her go.”

“I won’t use eco-slut in the article then, readers will get the wrong idea. What you said about monogamy, however, will resonate.”

Fleur gently squeezed my hand, saying, “I just knew you would get me. You are so pretty and smart, I definitely trust you to write what is best. We’ve arrived, what do you think?”

We stepped from the trees into a small ferny glen surrounding a clear blue pool from which a stream flowed. At the pool’s other end, a small waterfall cascaded down the cliff onto rocks, behind which there was a cave.

“It’s beautiful and peaceful, Fleur.”

“Isn’t it. Will you let me show you how I appreciate this special place?”

“If it helps me understand eco-sexuality.”

“Cool, nature’s sensuality is everywhere when you know how to look.”

She seemed so genuine and, given how good the grass felt against my pussy, I was willing to see if she really could make me feel and write better.

“Come with me,” Fleur said, excitedly.

“Simultaneously?” I asked, my giggle more flirtatious than I intended.

“Maybe later,” she said smirking, taking my hand and disturbing some dragonflies as we walked towards the waterfall. There, beside the water, partly shaded by ferns, Fleur had me lie on my front on a flat single-bed sized slab of rock. As my body pressed into the warm rock, she coated her hands with oil from her basket.

“I make this organic massage oil from eucalyptus and kunzea. The falling water and babbling creek are nature’s music, so close your eyes, listen, and enjoy the feel of my Renewal oil on your skin.”

I could feel myself relax with the sounds and smells, coupled with the swirling pressure of her fingers and thumbs working the tension knots from my shoulders, then circling across my back with alternating soft and firm touches.

Then at the rock’s other end, she massaged my legs from calves to thighs. As her fingers pressed firmly into my buttocks, a dribble of oil ran onto my arse hole.

“Moment of truth?” Fleur asked, giggling, “I could chase that stray drop and massage it into your bum. A dilemma for you too, I imagine.”

“I guess. A gorgeous woman fondling my arse has its attractions, but I am in journalist mode and have an article to write.”

Fleur slapped my arse, “Okay, turn over.”

Lying on my back, Fleur first massaged my scalp and neck which was delightfully relaxing. Then her hands ran firmly across my pectoral muscles which, given my constant computer use, was much less delightful.

“I know it is painful,” she said, “But something nice will follow.”

And it did, her hands running down my breastbone before sliding around the base of my breasts. Around and around her slippery fingers spiralled, ever inward until she was tracing her fingertips around my areolas.

“Oh, fuck that feels nice. You trying to distract me from my article?”

Fleur giggled, achingly softly pinching my nipples, and whispered, “No, I’m being nature’s fluffer.”

Her oily fingers rolled then gently pulled my nipples, which firmed with her exquisite touch. The tingles that sent through my squirming body crashed like waves against my clit.

Fleur’s fingers then grazed my inner thighs with butterfly touches and my legs instinctively spread.

“Your pretty pussy petals are pouting and fragrantly dewy, Nasturtium. You are ready.”

Every woman I had known would, having got me that wet, have fingered my sex. Not Fleur, pulling me to my feet, she led me across stepping stones to the waterfall.

“Sit,” she said, pointing to a rock continually splashed by water. When I sat, the water rained onto my head, flowed across my shoulders and dripped off my breasts. The cold watery kisses hardened my nipples and pleasure pulses surged through my body.

Fleur sat opposite me, another stream of water soaking her body. Then she leaned back so the water splashed into her lap. I copied her, immediately understanding what was in Fleur’s mind when splashes directly hit my aroused clit.

“Oh fuck,” I whimpered, the words echoing back, seemingly louder, off the cliff.

“What a potty mouth,” Fleur said, spreading her legs wider and pushing her clit into a continuously gushing stream of water, adding, “Copy me.”

I moved my clit directly under a constant stream. It felt heavenly, my needy aching clit slapped by the falling water.

“Let the waterfall make you cum Nasturtium,” I heard Fleur whisper, “I’m close too.”

Captured by the delicious sensations of my rising orgasm, there was no way I was stopping. Pressing my hips higher to maximise the water’s contact on my pearl, I sucked in my breath and screamed when a powerful orgasm tore through me. Vaguely aware that Fleur had shouted out too.

“Wow,” I said, after I had recovered my breath, “I hadn’t expected that intensity.”

“So, now you understand the power of nature’s orgasms.”

“That was amazing. But my readers would think that if they lay on their backs in the bathtub, straddled the tap, and pushed their pussies into the flowing water, they too would have a powerful natural orgasm.”

“Now you know a waterfall is a better lover than a man-made tap, isn’t it up to you to convince them?”

“Hold on, I am not writing about my own ecogasms.”

“But you can write in theory about waterfalls and watergasms. Explain that nature and sexuality can be one and the same thing. You now know nature is very sexual, and, if we look after it, will give divine orgasms, like your watergasm.”

“I guess, but readers will need more examples of ecosexuality.”

Fleur giggled, “Now who is an eco-slut.”

“All in the name of journalistic research. What did you mean by looking after nature?”

“You didn’t damage the environment when the waterfall fucked you. Yet recreating that indoors, with taps or sex toys isn’t as good for the environment as waste that isn’t recycled is produced.”

“So, is ecosexuality about environmental protection or pleasure?”

“Both, Nasturtium, but for me it started with pleasure. Will you let me show you something?”

Fleur looked so coy, almost vulnerable, and it melted my heart. She was stunningly beautiful, I had to own up that I was attracted to her. And she was willing to let me into her life immeasurably helping my most important article.

“Of course, Fleur.”

“You didn’t ask what replaces environmentally damaging sex toys.”

“Oh my God, one orgasm and I lose focus. Tell me.”

“Being vegisexual of course. Let’s go back to the house.”

When we got back, I sat on a couch on the veranda facing the cliff face while Fleur got two glasses of wine. She then went to the garden and returned with two zucchinis, asking me, “What do you see?”

“The cliffs, the ochre now has beautiful tinges of orange and red as the setting sun hits the rock.”

“So, does that beauty make your pussy wet?”

“Not really thinking like that.”

“I’m different, the view literally turns me on. I realized I was ecosexual when every night, as the sun sunk and the cliff colours intensified, I orgasmed. Often fucking a zucchini, but using my fingers when zucchinis were out of season.”

So, I focused on the intensification of the colours in the cliff face, while continually checking my body’s reaction. Not much pussy stimulation, well until that is Fleur spread her legs and I watched her twist a zucchini deep into her vagina. When she slid the zucchini out, it was wet with her juices.

“Oh, feels so good,” she said, “This view always arouses but more so tonight with you watching.”

While the sunset itself hadn’t really dampened my pussy, watching Fleur pleasure herself sure did. And I just had to feel what she felt, so I took the second zucchini and slowly twisted it into my pussy, pressing apart my now slippery velvet walls.

Sliding the zucchinis in and out of our pussies, slowly fucking ourselves as we rolled our clits with the fingers of our other hands, we watched the sunset light up the cliffs in fiery intense colours. The beauty of the Blue Mountains, the natural sexiness of Fleur, and that vegetable deliciously thrusting into my pussy, all combined to inexorably draw a toe-curling orgasm from me. One that was echoed in Fleur’s evocative moans.

“Want zucchini quiche for dinner?” Fleur then asked, leaning over and extracting the zucchini from my pussy.

With two mind-blowing ecogasms under my belt I wasn’t debating Fleur’s menu choices. But I now was in a quandary about my article. My boss expected irreverent humour not me seeing a point to ecosexuality. And, after I discovered how absolutely delicious it was, what would I write about pussy flavoured zucchini quiche?

Later that evening, a full moon rose over the cliff bathing us in silver light. Fleur put her arm around me and I instinctively snuggled against her soft breast. Kissing my forehead, she said, “Some ecosexuals so love nature they marry the moon or even a rock.”

“Would you?”

“No. I shamelessly hug trees, talk erotically to plants and admire the Earth's curves. I enjoy sex with waterfalls and vegetables. But the best thing ever is enjoying the Earth, my lover, with a sympathetic woman.”

Her lips softly brushed mine and she continued, “That beautiful moon couldn’t be my primary relationship. But moonlight will always illuminate the life my love and I share.”

Her lips returned to mine and instinctively our mouths pressed together, tongues swirling and dancing softly and slowly as we savoured our first kiss. Lying in her arms, my lips tingling with the kiss’s sensuality, I felt as mellow as I ever had.

“Come on sleepy head time for bed,” Fleur whispered.

Following Fleur to her bedroom, I snuggled under the doona with her cuddled against my back.

I woke from what felt like the deepest sleep, the dappled sunlight through the billowing hemp curtains playing across my eyes. The morning parrot squawks came through the open windows, but the outside smells were dominated by the yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread.

Lying on her bed, I felt so peaceful; controlling my breathing as the sounds, smells, and feel of the world came back to me. Only briefly had I glimpsed that before, in the moments after a massage, before getting up and re-joining the Sydney way of life.

This felt different, Fleur’s ecolife was longer lived. Stretching, I reached across the bed, finding it empty. Padding down the corridor, I found her standing by the stove naked. And I felt a surge of affection for her, given how I felt about myself.

Stepping up behind her, my hands slide around her, one cupping her breast while the other caressed her stomach. My butterfly kisses traced along the nape of her neck, before licking her earlobe and whispering, “Good morning.”

“Only just sleepy head. I take it you slept well.”

“Perfectly,” I whispered, my finger tracing delicate circles around her areola, “Something smells yummy.”

“The bread? Or are you referring to my honey?” she said with a giggle, as she leant back into me, her back snug against my breasts.

When I snickered, my fingers spider walking across her stomach and teasingly stopping at the top of her mound, she pointed to fresh honeycomb from which honey was oozing and puddling on a plate.

“I mean the honey my bees have given us. You have a dirty mind.”

“Moi? You mentioned compostgasms.”

As she spread some honey over a slice of freshly baked bread, my finger delicately brushed her firming nipple. Then she spun in my arms and offered me a bite. The freshness of the honey and bread exploded on my taste buds.

A dribble of honey fell from my lips and trailed across my breast viscously coating my areola. Fleur watched, an eyebrow raised, and then softly grazed my honey coated nipple with hers, the one I had made firm moments ago.

My nipple throbbed with the exquisite touch and that tingle surged through my body and broke on my clit. Lowering her head, her tongue swirled deliciously over my honey covered nipple.

Fleur smirked, saying, “I can smell another honey now.”

That convinced me. I wasn’t rushing back to Sydney to start my article.

“I have unfinished business,” I said.

“More research?” Fleur asked, her grin wickedly sexy.

“This isn’t work anymore.”

“I know, Nasturtium, it started to feel deeper last night.”

“Yesterday I told myself everything was about the article, but, when I woke up, I felt differently; like I really knew what it meant to be alive.”

“Just from opening your pussy to nature?”

“Maybe, but I owe it to myself to discover how much you have to do with that.”

“Yes, please. Just take it slowly, beautiful.”

“I will. But, no arguing from you.”

She looked at me, adorably out of the corner of her eyes, saying, “You’re bossy.”

As we ate brunch the anticipation was palpable. Even naked, Fleur had ecobitionist cards to play. She caught my eye, spread her legs, giving me glimpses of her pouting dewy pussy. That fuelled my smouldering desire.

We set out for the waterfall, holding hands, stopping only to hug the gum trees.

The pool glistened in the sun; the drinking wallabies scampering away upon seeing us. Fleur surprised me, leading me across the stepping stones to the waterfall and stepping through the falling water into the cave.

“I feel so special here, Nasturtium, like I am in one of nature’s pussies. The damp, drippy, mossy walls are very sensual.”

Towards the back, Fleur sat on a mossy rock and stared at me expectantly.

I took a cockatoo feather I had found outside and ran it across her jaw and down her neck. As the tip of the feather ran around her areola, she whimpered. Whimpers turned to moans when the feather then trailed across her stomach and caressed her sex.

Taking an overhanging fern frond, I traced one nipple with that while the feather returned to her other nipple. Continually trailing both the fern and feather across her body in abstract patterns, I watched Fleur close her eyes, lost, in her special place, in the sensuality of nature’s touch.

As her legs spread wider, the dewy folds of her pussy unfurled like an orchid greeting the sun. I softly exhaled on her sensitive sex. She whimpered and an errant drip of her juices trickled down her perineum. My tongue chased after it, wiggling eel-like across her skin and scooping that drip into my mouth. Her molasses taste exploded on my taste buds.

Rasping my tongue up through her wet velvet folds, I softly flicked her clit with my tongue. Her whimpers echoed through the cave and she pressed her hips up, sliding her clit across my mouth.

Two fingers crossed and pressed against her opening, as my mouth suckled her clit. In one smooth motion, my fingers curled into her pussy, my knuckles sliding and pressing her slick viscous walls apart.

With me sucking her clit in time with my fingers repeatedly twisting into her, Fleur started howling in pleasure.

Knowing she was close, I straddled her hips, lowering myself until the edge of my pussy lips touched her sex. With just that contact, I locked onto her eyes and rocked back and forth, and, given our arousal, the touch of our pussies was almost frictionless.

Squatting, I pressed every fold of my sex into Fleur’s. Leaning forward, my hips circled, massaging her pouting pussy with my now firm clit and pubic bone. Then, leaning back, our labia pressed together and I bounced, slapping our pussies together, causing us both to scream out.

She rocked her hips as much as she could, given I was pressing her against the mossy rock. My nerve-packed clit bumped up against hers, the sensation super intense, my clit more engorged than I ever remembered it having been.

Fleur wrapped her arms around my neck, drew me to her and kissed me, her tongue dancing with mine. Our breasts mashed together, our firm nipples grazing, my orgasm building. Our slick folds slid together linked by tenacious strings of honey.

Overcome by desire and need, I felt like a wild beast claiming my mate. My pussy throbbed and I knew I was about to be consumed by orgasmic fire. Fleur’s ragged breathing, flushed cheeks, and desperate moaning told me she was too.

And when her body shook violently and she was overcome by a massive orgasm, I was triggered and exploded in my own supernova of an orgasm.

We snuggled together under the dripping water. Fleur kissed my forehead, nose and lips, and whispered, “That was so special, best sex ever.”

“I wanted to repay your trust in bringing me to such an important place, but that was so beyond my expectations.”

“We are in deeper than we expected you know.”

“Yes, we are, though I do have to head back and start writing.”

As we walked back words felt unnecessary, which may have been a good thing as I wasn’t sure how I could actually write a humorous article that respected what Fleur had shown me.

And yet, after continuous editing, I managed just that; the Sunday feature was a remarkable success. Fleur loved the clarity with which I explained what to her and other ecosexuals was plain common sense. My editor thought the same words cleverly amusing. The public voted with their web clicks; the best received story of the week.

My only drama was Cynthia, my sub-editor, a traditionalist about the English language. She reminded me so much of Roz from Monsters Inc., with a gravelly voice to match. Ecosexual was bad enough, but I seriously thought she would be an eco-badass over compostgasm and vegisexual, irrespective of whether they were hyphenated or not.

But, after the article had been well received, she said, “I know what you did Natasha. You are good, very good in fact. But take it from me, to avoid being eaten in piranha infested waters you must become a piranha.”

“Your point is?”

“That often, most times actually, you must toe the editorial line and can’t write cleverly enough to have it both ways.”

“And?”

“And that means hurting people like Fleur. I have a thick skin, think about whether you really do.”

Journalism was my life or so I thought, but Cynthia really made me think. I had some leave and decided to get the train to Blackheath. A taxi, reluctantly, took me down to the valley where I had gone a fortnight before.

As the car disappeared in a cloud of dust I clambered over the fence.

Standing by the gate, after the dust had drifted away, I closed my eyes, and breathed in Australia’s native scents. Refreshed, I quickly undressed, felt the breeze and sun on my skin, left collecting my small bag for later, and walked up to Fleur’s house.

Just me, no accessories; nothing, not even shoes or ear studs. Except that is for the container I carried. Fleur watched me every step of the way.

“Is that what I think it is?” she asked, holding out her arms, invitingly. And, putting down my container, I stepped into her arms and, as our breasts mashed together, nipples grazing, we softly kissed, a lovers’ kiss.

“Yes,” I replied, when we broke our kiss, “I mixed my menstrual blood with water last weekend to keep it liquid.”

“Cool, let’s pour it on the zucchini patch. I buried mine there last week. Adding yours should mean the biggest zucchini ever.”

“My editor would have wanted me to write that as a BGZ joke.”

“BGZ?”

“Big green zucchini,” I said with a smirk, “He would have loved me inventing the ecosexual equivalent of BBC.”

“The UK television service?” she replied, attempting to look confused. And failing as a radiant smile broke across her teasing face.

“What do you mean by would have, Nasturtium?”

“That means I’m now not sure the Telegraph is really for me.”

“Oh," Fleur said, grinning, "How long are you staying?”

“I haven’t booked a return ticket.”

 

 

 

 

 

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