I've made this one up. Although I do have an anorexic cherry tree at the back, my cherries don't come up. Can you imagine having a garden that yields these beauties? Well, I can.
I can because, when I was a child, I used to spend insane amounts of time at my aunt's farm, where cherry trees were as ubiquitous to the gently rolling hills behind the house as dandelions are to my own back garden. After dinner, I would often sneak out to the trees for a fruity dessert, picking straight from the branches and often taking handful of leaves down with the cherries as I could not reach properly. I think this is when my love affair with cherries began, one that was devoid of hair-raising £ 5.99 price tags as if they were an exotic delicacy. I can, and often do, eat £ 5.99 worth of cherries in one sitting, indulging in them would cost me hundreds of pounds per month at the rate prices are soaring.
At the same time, I used to tag behind my dad as he was sorting out his allotment. My dad is a Virgo and I can tell you that his precision-making was reflected in his green pursuits as much as in his perfectly stored hardware. The tall plants of green beans like vegetable soldiers would cross leafy fingers with the tomato plants and then the zucchini with their gigantic orange flowers mum used to deep fry and the salads, the redheads and the greenheads. If dad and I were pottering around the allotment before dinner, it was a sure way for me not to oblige once sat at the table; that's because I used to pick tomatoes and peas straight from the plants and eat them there and then, my dad picking the discarded shells I left in my eating wake. When I think of those days, I always think that you do not become a vegetarian, you are born that way.