In defence of the grapefruit.

There are certain things I indulge in when Mr L isn’t home. I reflected on this recently whilst he enjoyed an evening of post-work drinks and I pottered off to keep the cats company and spend some alone time in the house.

Now for some people an evening without their parter might involve watching that guilty pleasure film, taking the longest bath possible with the largest glass of wine they can manage, eating dinner in bed with a good book. It’s not that I don’t enjoy any of these things, I do, but when Mr L is out the first thing I do is bust out my secret stash of grapefruit.


I like to eat my grapefruit cut in half so that it can be slowly, deliberately and delicately be enjoyed using my grapefruit spoon. A special utensil handed down from my grandmother with a perfect serrated tip that allows maximum grapefruit scoopage.

I also like to enjoy my grapefruit in peace. Which I cannot do when Mr L is home. His dislike and derision of such wonderful a fruit goes so far that he once sent me this graph to help illustrate it.


(graph thanks to XKCD)

That man has a serious grapefruit aversion. Which is perfectly fine and understandable. Not everybody gets the greatness that is the tart and juicy pompelmo. But sometimes, when I get an evening to myself there is nothing better than curling up with an episode of Columbo* with my grapefruit spoon at the ready.

*we’ll discuss that another time shall we?


I’m pretending I haven’t seen it.

I think autumn is trying to sneak up on us. The last couple of days I’ve worn a jacket for the first time in months and today I gave in and added a jumper. Not that this has stopped me wearing shorts because it hasn’t, but I did have to give in and wear tights with them. I’m just not ready for autumn, I’m in an official state of denial about it all. I mean,  it’s August, and August is not an autumnal month. Also there are too many things happening in autumn for it to be upon us just yet .


But the pumpkin doesn’t lie, and it’s getting more orange by the day. I can see it from the dining room window, taunting me, flashing its orange skin amongst the leaves. I haven’t been out to check on it in the last couple of days because it’s rained and thundered, and I have been mostly curled up on the sofa trying to pretend that it’s still warm enough in the house to wear just a vest top (whilst hiding under a quilt). However, I know it’s there.

The strange thing is that I love autumn. It’s my favourite time of year. It means knitwear and the start of the football season (yes, yes, I know it starts tomorrow, but that’s just silly, it never used to start as early as mid-August), and pumpkins! Ones I grew myself and are supposed to taste like roasted chestnuts. And yet, I’m just not ready. I want a little more sunshine, a few more figs from the tree and I’m still holding out hope that our courgette plants will produce a courgette (I’m not sure how last year I drowned in marrows to the extent that I’ve hidden them in the work freezer – ssshhh – and this year not a single courgette has graced my plot). I want to drink just one more glass (ahem, bottle) of rosé, and spend just a few more breakfasts before work sitting outside watching the cats roll around in the dust.

Perhaps if I ignore the pumpkins for long enough they will realise I’m not ready, stop ripening and allow me just a few more weeks of blissful ignorance?