As I roam about the village, and the land beyond, I have noticed the occasional blue tub.
They are usually discretely arranged at the edges of fields or hidden in hedges and I have never seen anyone approach them, loiter near them or cast furtive glances at them in passing.
I now think I know what they are!
A walk on a bright spring day allowed me to pass through the fields and hedgerows disguised as an ambler.
The snap above tells it all.
They are obviously industrial quantities of pickle arranged thus to avoid any one person in the neighbourhood being found in possession of such quantities. This would leave them open to the charge of supply and distribution. In this liberal day and age pickle is not the demon it once was. I believe you can purchase it in modest quantities for personal consumption, say 400grams. The street name for this quantity is jar. You may have heard the lower orders asking each other if they fancy a jar. I have heard, though, that there are dealers in the Great Wen who consume half their body weight of pickle in any 24 hour period. Well it makes sense, what else would you do with bonuses of over a million pounds and they are so close to the pickle dens of Brick Lane.
Piecing together this wicked trade I am reliably informed that it comes into the country in containers. These are unloaded in some dreadful hell hole where reputable cargoes of poor souls seeking a new life or the produce of the poppy fields of Afghanistan that we have done so much to encourage are just abandoned by the side of the road. Such is its value that the pickle is stuffed into every nook and cranny of the container. It then arrives at some port where it is waved through on a wink and a nod and the odd jar being waved under the nose of the pickle police.
I must let our local Bobby know about this. He moves around the village forever on his bicycle, but what is he doing?
Now where did I put those poppadoms?
