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A letter to…

Let me set the scene and demonstrate why I hate you. It was a Wednesday, a universally recognised okay day. Mediocre in almost every possible way, Wednesday is a day which is far enough away from the weekend to make the little things really, really matter. So I go to Hall.

The roast beef is great, accompanied perfectly by the classic fizz of an ice-cold Fanta: things are looking good. So I move on to my fruit crumble, something I had been thinking about all day and something I dream about all night until I get to Hall that evening. Crumble and I have had a pretty damn-near perfect relationship over the years; it’s always been there for me, in large helpings, ready to give me a big warm fruity hug. But this time was different, wasn’t it, prunes? A

s I delved my spoon deep into the crumbly goodness, and brought it to my mouth, I spotted you there, an intruder, a foreign object in stark contrast to the calming yellows and light greens of the apples and pears. A single, insolent, and black-as-darkest-night prune. You were staring with pure audacity up at me. I was furious. Like every sane person, I hate you. And not without reason. Let’s get this straight: you are, in most cases, dried, greasy, and horrible to eat. You look like you belong at the bottom of the deepest, darkest lake. I have had horrible and unforgettable experiences purely because I have encountered you and your cousins in several horrible meals over the years. And its not just for your mild laxative qualities, although mild isn’t the word that comes to mind when I think of my reaction to consuming your ilk at Christmas of 2010. ‘Explosive’ might be more apt. By the law of association, the whole of the crumble was now off-limits, purely because of you. I was sincerely unimpressed. Why did this have to happen? Usually our rivalry consists of long distance Tarantino-esque staring contests, as I express my disgust in the markets or stalls by throwing serious shade in your direction. This time you crossed the damn line. You hit me in my most personal of comforts: crumble.

One of my friends pointed out that it might not be a prune; maybe it was a plum. We are friends no longer. She just didn’t get it – the damage had been done. It wouldn’t have mattered if you had been a plum. You are so evil that even the idea of you puts me off. I know taste is subjective; I’m sure there’s a small group of people who can’t get enough of you – probably the Westboro Baptist Church or Katie Hopkins – but generally you are the rightly rejected member of the fruit family.

It’s of no surprise that the portion of our society known for their lack of senses, namely the elderly, love you, as they have the pleasure of neither being able to see or taste you. Stay in your corner, prunes, don’t make this personal and please, for God sake, leave the crumble out of this. It did nothing to deserve it.

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