Pineapple

Both exotic (the one piece of fruit in the fruit bowl no one touches without permission) and as ordinary as tinned fruit (pineapple chunks or pineapple rings) it is my favourite of all tropical fruit. And it can be so variable.

I used to have one blue packet of pineapple juice with a crude yellow and green shape delivered at school on Monday mornings for about five years. On reflection, it tasted a little woody.

One year, I was living in lodgings within the cathedral precincts but some distance away from where my juice was delivered. Having collected it, I had taken it up to the library and left it with my other stuff while I chose some books.

When I returned, Anthony Michael, a curly headed Greek boy, had pierced a hole in its side and drunk about half its contents. He admitted his guilt with a wink. Exasperated as much at the thought of having to carry a leaking carton of juice through the cathedral precincts as at the naked theft, I picked up the carton and squirted pineapple juice over the essay he had been writing. 

Revenge was sweet but it led to cold fury. "Would you like to step outside?" in dangerous tones. I remained in the library, my sanctuary. He did not forget my crime, complaining how I had ruined his work, forcing him to rewrite it. A few days later, I felt a kick from behind.  One of the girls in the same French set admonished me for failing to retaliate.