Write four lines of prose that have something to do with: the troublesome Mr. Gent.
Who the heck is that? you may be asking. I have no idea, it's just a name that came along with the adjective when I was tossing prompt ideas around in my head.
So you tell me, basically.
Tomorrow is Peach Fest in Penticton, which brings with it the annual parade that pushes the farmers market off Main Street and onto a side street adjacent to it. A very condensed version of it, anyway. There's only room for twenty vendors (as opposed to over sixty) and no space for vehicles. Which means unloading everything when we get there, parking elsewhere, and then doing it all in reverse when it's time to go home.
I'm hoping there won't be too much left to pack up at that point, but we are certainly bringing a lot of produce. Fingers crossed that Becky's final market (and Carolyn's first) with us will be a good one.
"He's knocking on the door once more!" roared Eleanore. "He's already borrowed ten pounds of sugar this week, how can he possibly expect more?"
"This must be the end, the battle lines shall be drawn," replied Dawn. "The next time I see him coming, I shall set fire to the lawn."