Mrs Fit, in the middle of making her famous strawberry torte for a dinner party that night, discovered she had run out of cream. Frustrated, she phoned Freddy, (her husband) who was out on a bike ride and asked him to stop off at the supermarket on his way home.
Freddy, who was normally forbidden to shop by himself, (apparently he spent too much money on rubbish nobody else wanted to eat) jumped at the chance. He wandered up and down the aisles, whistling to himself, prodding and poking things here and there. The other shoppers eyed him suspiciously, they had never seen anyone so happy in a supermarket before. It was unnatural.
But Freddy paid no notice and couldn’t believe his luck when he found yogurt on sale. Reduced fat and all! Mrs Fit would be pleased, she ate it every morning for breakfast. He placed a number of tubs carefully in the basket, as well as batteries, (which there were never enough of), chicken livers, (he suddenly felt the urge to make pate) a small jar of truffles, (a bargain at $2.50) a car battery charger, (yes, ok he already had one but he couldn’t help himself) a cast iron frying pan, a jar of pickled herrings, a slab of Parmesan and of course, the cream. He was tempted to buy a lawn mower but wasn’t sure how he would get that past Mrs Fit when he got home, let alone how to get it home.
Munching on a chocolate bar he had bought on his way through the checkout, Freddy balanced the overflowing shopping bags on the handle bars as best he could. It was all a bit wobbly but there was nothing he could do about it.
Feeling rather proud of himself, he had obviously saved a lot of money , (the docket told him so) he rode through the car park as fast as he could and decided to see if he could still do a mono.
Crouching low over the handlebars he pedaled furiously. Then leaning back he pulled the handlebars up. He felt the wheel lift slightly off the ground.
“Not bad,” he congratulated himself. However he knew he could do better.He crouched low over the handlebars again and pumped the pedals savagely. This time the front tyre lifted high off the ground.
“Woohoo,” he yelled. But unfortunately, the uneven weight on the handle bars was too much and Freddy crashed to the ground, smashing his head on the asphalt road. The shopping bags lay in a desperate mess all around him.
Groggily, he raised himself onto his elbows. His head was pounding. He thought he was imagining things when he saw something lumpy falling from his head down to the ground. He reached up and felt his helmet. It was covered in a pink, mushy, lumpy goo.
“Freddy are you okay?” Mr Smarts asked running to him. He had been driving past and witnessed the whole event.
‘No!” Freddy screamed. “I think my brains are falling out.”
“What! What’s happening to Freddy?” Mr Groovy yelled as he ran frantically from the other end of the car park.
“Freddy’s brains are falling out!” Mr Red screamed. “We need an ambulance.”
“We don’t need an ambulance,” Mr Smarts insisted as he attempted to remove Freddy’s helmet.
“Get away from me!” Freddy shrieked clutching the helmet tightly. “If you take my helmet off I won’t have any brains left. Oh My God I’m going to be brainless!”
“What the hell is that smell?” Mr Groovy asked.
“It’s his brains,” Mr Red said knowlingly. “Do you think we would push them back in before it’s too late?”
Mr Smarts looked at Mr Red in dismay. Surely he couldn’t be serious? He lent down and swiped his finger across the gooey mess, raised it to his mouth and licked it off. Mr Red nearly fainted but Mr Groovy knew, as Mr Smarts did, that it was just strawberry yogurt with pickled herring mixed together and definitely not Freddy Fits brains.