Not having found my true destiny yet (other than facilitating the life of the most wonderful person in the world by dint of giving birth to him) I am toying with making a stab at crime writing. Not because I want to be published or carry murder in my heart. Far from it. But because I need to exercise my little grey cells before they turn purple. Anyway, some of the best crime writers are of advancing years. I am not surprised. Once life has had you through the wringer you know when best not to turn the knife.
My first case being that of “The Lost Kiwi”. A week before Christmas I bought a kiwi. I made it the crowning glory of my fruit bowl glowing with oranges, lemons and apples. When the time came that I fancied that Kiwi for breakfast it had disappeared. I try not to waste too much thought on anyone/anything doing a disappearing act. There, usually, is a good reason for continued absence and/or silence. One which escapes me but let’s give people (and things) the benefit of the doubt. After all, it might be all your fault for having mis/displaced them.
Before sending you on a goose chase with a story so wildly improbable (think Agatha Christie) I’ll give you the end. In quest to tidy both my life and the flat for a pristine new year an hour ago I first borrowed two pound Sterling short of my five. Then I set to work. And what do you know: I found The Kiwi. Underneath the dining room table. It must have rolled off. Ten days ago. Why? I don’t know. It’s difficult to question a Kiwi. Speculation is all. It might have been an accident (that’s my guess since I am of charitable disposition), it might have wished to escape its destiny ending up in my stomach – though why anyone/anything wouldn’t wish to meet their destiny in my stomach is beyond me). So who knows what happened. I myself blame gravity. Ask Newton.
The jury is still out as to whether this Kiwi is still edible. It feels soft to the touch. Maybe a touch too soft. I shall butcher it tomorrow when my stomach is empty and my senses not yet fully discerning.