An apple a day

The puzzling case of the indestructable fruit

Attempting to find a clean pair of socks in the morning is like a Crystal Maze challenge. Except I’m not wearing a shellsuit, Richard O’ Brian isn’t making ominous faces at the egg timer and I want to cry. Enough is enough – it’s time to tidy my bedroom.

The last time I attempted to assemble the piles of rubble into an orderly formation, I found all manner of weird and wonderful curios. Among the doilies (why?), framed cannabis leaf (a tasteful gift) and dead plants (I’m no Charlie Dimmock) was a handbag. I imagine Harrison Ford felt this much trepidation when he discovered the arc of the covenant. After peeling away the cobwebs and bat droppings, I gingerly pulled on the zipper. Would evil spirits spring forth and melt my face off? Erm, not exactly. Languishing at the bottom of the handbag was forty seven pence and an apple. A lovely, succulent looking, spherical apple with not a pip out of place. It had been there for around four months, but was still as lovely looking as the day it was ripped from the tree by a giant industrial hoover.

Something isn’t quite right here. I’m aware of the scurvy-banishing properties of fruit and vegetables. They’re nutritious and delicious. But, despite my best efforts, apples are always left, forlorn and pathetic, at the bottom of my fruit bowl. That’s the problem: there are ALWAYS apples in my fruit bowl, and evidently, my wardrobe. They’re the same apples that I purchased months ago in a pathetic attempt to detoxify my gin-addled liver, but they defy the laws of nature! Fresh fruit and vegetables are supposed to be ephemeral. We purchase them in a post-hobnob splurge of guilt, look at them for a while and then get on with our lives while they follow their pre-destined path of decomposition. So why won’t they just get on with it? Could their ungodly longevity be down to chemical assistance?

I read somewhere that apples are often stored for a year before they reach our shelves. Add to that the length of time they’ve colonised my house and you’ve got yourself one hell of an elderly apple. It’s rather disturbing that something can be labelled as ‘fresh’ when it has witnessed the rise and fall of Jade Goody. Are we pickling ourselves from the insides out with the very things that are supposed to cleanse our vital organs? It’s a worrying thought.

Anna Nicole Smith (god rest her gigantic mammeries) instructed that her body be embalmed in the event of her death. Apart from the obvious disadvantage of being dead, the embalmers have apparently kept her very lifelike. If she’d consumed enough of the vile toxins that we’re forced to imbibe each and every day of our waking lives, then the taxidermist wasn’t really necessary. Just remember kids: An apple a day keeps decomposition at bay. Buy organic and your corpse will rot at a sensible pace.

On a lighter note, I couldn’t possibly celebrate the monumental fiftieth edition of Quench without bathing in a warm, fetid bath of nostalgia. By my calculations, I’ve been loitering around the gair rhydd office for nigh on twenty–seven Quench editions. That’s 189 dog issues. Phew! It’d be impossible to sum up the experience of being surrounded by so many lovely, insane people. I’m as warped as an un-Ronsealed garden fence, so I’m clearly in good company. Happy birthday Quench!