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evil grapes

I have this weird phobia about fruit. I like it, but it has to be absolutely pristine: no bruises, no odd shapes, and it has to be crispy and not soft at all. It’s the only thing that I’m like that about – I can cut mold off cheese and eat it without a qualm, I can even pick moldy bits off bread if I’m starving and there’s nothing else in the house, but I cannot eat a slightly overripe piece of fruit. I get a queasy feeling if I even think about eating it.

I’m writing about this because I’m staring at a half-eaten bunch of grapes on my desk. They were gorgeous yesterday, all crispy and cold and lovely, the best fruit ever. But this morning, after sitting on my desk overnight (wrapped in a plastic bag), they are warm and I cannot eat them. We can’t keep anything in the refrigerator at work, because of all the containers of milk for tea…enough to make tea for everyone in China. Surely this is more milk than fifty people could use in half a week. But what do I know? Anyway, my grapes are warm. And some of them have bruises now. And (after eating all the perfect ones yesterday) the remaining ones aren’t the supermodels of the grape world – they are odd shapes and sizes. They have no place in my orderly fascist world of perfect fruit.

I just wrapped them up and threw them in the bin, guilty about binning what is probably perfectly good fruit for most people, people who aren’t as paranoid about evil misshapen fruit. But in the bin they went, like misshapen children thrown out to die on their own.

Evil grapes.

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