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“God you look old.”
I am happily walking my dog around Swan Park on a beautiful autumn evening when a voice breaks my daydreaming. I turn towards a smiling, unshaved man holding a carrier bag full of apples.
“Thanks” I say. “It must be the light.”
“Well, not old as much as bald, what’s happened to your hair?”
It’s Joe, who I last saw three years ago in a pub.
What’s in the bag? I say, intent on changing the subject.
“Oh, I’ve just been getting some apples from a tree in the town. All you have to do is lean over a wall and it’s rich pickings.”
“I call that Scrumping?” I say. “Apples always taste nicer when they are someone else’s.”
Joe is looking confused, then corrects me “Ah, you mean Progging.” Then continues. “Well the person that owns them leaves them for the wasps and slugs, so I collect them every year and I haven’t been chased away yet. Did you ever do it, you know, Proggin’?” he asks me.
“Well funny you should ask,” I say. “I used to do quite a bit. The worst one was at a friend’s house, they had a large, beautiful apple tree with the sweetest apples on them. Another friend and I did a midnight raid, but with a twist. Instead of pinching the apples we took one single bite out of each one, carefully leaving them on the tree. I felt so guilty afterwards I had to confess to the person what I had done.”
“Was he still your friend afterwards?” Joe asked as he sat down on a bench near the new poop-a-scooper bins the Council have put on the park to try and get dog owners to be responsible.
“Well, he was, and if my memory serves me well he got his own back by stealing a load of tomatoes out of my dad’s greenhouse. The last laugh was on him though because he ate the fruit without washing it first and it was in the days when hideous chemicals were sprayed over everything in the name of pest control, he was ill for a week…..”
Joe interrupts. “I’m making a pie out of these,” he tells me, biting into one of his booty. I know they’re not cookers but when you put some blackberries in with it you can’t tell. “Here’s a tip I’ll tell you,” he continues, whether I like it or not. “Don’t pick blackberries from near the road or low enough for dogs to wee on.”
“I’ll remember that Joe.” I say counting how many exchanges of words it has taken Joe to reduce the conversation down to bodily functions. “There are a lot of berries around at the moment, autumn is really on us.” I say loosely as I am ready to carry on my walk. The dog’s bark has gone up an octave as she impatiently tries to urge me around the park and onto the beach.
“What sort of berries?” Asks Joe as he fastens up his padded jacket, brushes his hair out of his face and begins to walk just behind me.
It’s times like this that I wish that Julian, my old lecturer at college was with me. I used to think it would be a great idea to have a miniature version of him to fit in the top pocket of my jacket. He was a mine full of information and could be on call to answer any question. I don’t tend to store much in my head, that’s what the Internet was designed for, but as neither was to hand I had to rely on my own, rather flaky memory.
Julian gave me the best piece of advice when I left college though, he said, “Just remember four or five Latin plant names and drop them out in conversation. People will think you are a genius.……” That pearl of wisdom has stood me in good stead for years.
“Well,” I began, “There are Cotoneasters, especially dammeri with their red-berries, the birds love them. The Mahonia aquifolium is very attractive, providing us with blue-black berries which look great with their shiny evergreen leaves.” Wow, that’s two Latin names, just one more and Joe will think I am a real pro.
“Then there’s Pyracantha “Orange Charmer,” these have vicious spikes that would deter even the hardiest apple progger. Viburnum opulus is a native shrub that provides shiny red berries resembling coloured glass.” I’m on a roll here, one more and I am in the Super League. Have you heard of Sambucus niger?” I ask, “These are known as wild elderberry…” I turn around to get an answer.
Joe is moving away from me at a fast pace. “Look Ian, it was good talking to you,” he says, looking rather agitated. “I have just seen the bloke who owns the apple tree on the other side of the river”….
And as if by magic, Joe disappeared into the undergrowth and within a few seconds all I could hear was the sound of his carrier bag rustling in the distance.
“There’s holly…. I know the Latin name for that too….” I mumble to myself as I carry on my evening walk. The dog’s happy.
“God you look old.”
I am happily walking my dog around Swan Park on a beautiful autumn evening when a voice breaks my daydreaming. I turn towards a smiling, unshaved man holding a carrier bag full of apples.
“Thanks” I say. “It must be the light.”
“Well, not old as much as bald, what’s happened to your hair?”
It’s Joe, who I last saw three years ago in a pub.
What’s in the bag? I say, intent on changing the subject.
“Oh, I’ve just been getting some apples from a tree in the town. All you have to do is lean over a wall and it’s rich pickings.”
“I call that Scrumping?” I say. “Apples always taste nicer when they are someone else’s.”
Joe is looking confused, then corrects me “Ah, you mean Progging.” Then continues. “Well the person that owns them leaves them for the wasps and slugs, so I collect them every year and I haven’t been chased away yet. Did you ever do it, you know, Proggin’?” he asks me.
“Well funny you should ask,” I say. “I used to do quite a bit. The worst one was at a friend’s house, they had a large, beautiful apple tree with the sweetest apples on them. Another friend and I did a midnight raid, but with a twist. Instead of pinching the apples we took one single bite out of each one, carefully leaving them on the tree. I felt so guilty afterwards I had to confess to the person what I had done.”
“Was he still your friend afterwards?” Joe asked as he sat down on a bench near the new poop-a-scooper bins the Council have put on the park to try and get dog owners to be responsible.
“Well, he was, and if my memory serves me well he got his own back by stealing a load of tomatoes out of my dad’s greenhouse. The last laugh was on him though because he ate the fruit without washing it first and it was in the days when hideous chemicals were sprayed over everything in the name of pest control, he was ill for a week…..”
Joe interrupts. “I’m making a pie out of these,” he tells me, biting into one of his booty. I know they’re not cookers but when you put some blackberries in with it you can’t tell. “Here’s a tip I’ll tell you,” he continues, whether I like it or not. “Don’t pick blackberries from near the road or low enough for dogs to wee on.”
“I’ll remember that Joe.” I say counting how many exchanges of words it has taken Joe to reduce the conversation down to bodily functions. “There are a lot of berries around at the moment, autumn is really on us.” I say loosely as I am ready to carry on my walk. The dog’s bark has gone up an octave as she impatiently tries to urge me around the park and onto the beach.
“What sort of berries?” Asks Joe as he fastens up his padded jacket, brushes his hair out of his face and begins to walk just behind me.
It’s times like this that I wish that Julian, my old lecturer at college was with me. I used to think it would be a great idea to have a miniature version of him to fit in the top pocket of my jacket. He was a mine full of information and could be on call to answer any question. I don’t tend to store much in my head, that’s what the Internet was designed for, but as neither was to hand I had to rely on my own, rather flaky memory.
Julian gave me the best piece of advice when I left college though, he said, “Just remember four or five Latin plant names and drop them out in conversation. People will think you are a genius.……” That pearl of wisdom has stood me in good stead for years.
“Well,” I began, “There are Cotoneasters, especially dammeri with their red-berries, the birds love them. The Mahonia aquifolium is very attractive, providing us with blue-black berries which look great with their shiny evergreen leaves.” Wow, that’s two Latin names, just one more and Joe will think I am a real pro.
“Then there’s Pyracantha “Orange Charmer,” these have vicious spikes that would deter even the hardiest apple progger. Viburnum opulus is a native shrub that provides shiny red berries resembling coloured glass.” I’m on a roll here, one more and I am in the Super League. Have you heard of Sambucus niger?” I ask, “These are known as wild elderberry…” I turn around to get an answer.
Joe is moving away from me at a fast pace. “Look Ian, it was good talking to you,” he says, looking rather agitated. “I have just seen the bloke who owns the apple tree on the other side of the river”….
And as if by magic, Joe disappeared into the undergrowth and within a few seconds all I could hear was the sound of his carrier bag rustling in the distance.
“There’s holly…. I know the Latin name for that too….” I mumble to myself as I carry on my evening walk. The dog’s happy.
