The Year of the Orange

Age is a funny old thing and trying to recall what you were doing at certain points in your life, can dust off some bizarre memories.

I can remember at the age of 5 being rushed off to hospital, sweating and doubled over in pain, wrapped in a red tartan car blanket with twiddly tassels around the edges (standard issue Ford Cortina boot contents). It was mid-December and the fruit bowls in the house were all bursting with tangerines. I sneaked down in the dead of night, stole as many as my tiny hands could carry in one mission and retreated to my single bed to unwrap the juicy flesh, consume, then hide the peel under the mattress.

The coincidental timing of the worlds biggest belly ache and acute appendicitis was inopportune and I tried desperately hard to curl up and go to sleep through it, believing all I’d need the next morning was a good poo to clear the orange onslaught I’d treated my guts to in the wee small hours.

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