Waspish

There is, if you look, a wasp on that apple.

There are a lot of apple trees around here that no one seems to own, from which no one seems to pick apples. Brambles too. We could all be rich in apple and blackberry jam, apple and blackberry crumbles. My mother used to make them. I could never decide what was best - the crispy top or the doughy underside of the crumble batter. Sweetness and fattiness and stodginess turned into heaven in a bowl. The apples a little tart. And then custard or Devon cream or vanilla ice-cream. Mix the flavours together and roll them across the tongue, savour, swallow and another spoonful. Can I eat more? Yes... and then there's none left. Slight nausea from over indulgence and yet the taste... you'd eat another spoonful for the taste.

There's a lot to be said for simple pleasures.

For lunch today I mashed up an avocado with olive oil (a dash), chopped garlic (a clove), lemon juice (a squeeze) and sea salt (a sprinkle). I spread it over spelt sourdough in generous slices and had a fresh salad as accompaniment. Nothing could be better, I thought. until I finished and wanted chocolate, coffee... it goes on.

There is always this absence to be filled. The desire. For something. A thought. A consolation. The touch of love or the ease of pain.

For many weeks, alone-ness did not bother me too much. The framework of connections that I established during lockdown has broken down and my bulwarks against the negative feel fragmented and porous. The wasp mines my flesh and my soul, insistently buzzing and determinedly digging.

I feel like these windfall apples. Left on the pavement. On a tree, apples have the succulent promise of freshness and life; once grounded, cut from their umbilical cord stalk, they are just waste, just rotting. The meaningless refuse of a nation of plenty, where we can afford to let things go.