The Banana Story:
Out at 6:30 this morning for a clammy 4 mile dash around the darkened village.
The run was reasonable, but as I had to get the 7:40 to Paddington, I was left with little time for breakfast.
So after my shower, I grabbed an apple and banana and hobbled off to the car. I stuffed the banana into my jacket pocket, and chomped on the apple as I drove to the station. As usual, I stopped at the newspaper kiosk, jumped out, scored a copy of The Times and hurried back to the car. Imagine my dismay to discover my banana lying dead on the pavement next to my car, squashed flat. Dropping it was bad enough, but treading on it…?
It was one of the most difficult decisions a man has to face. He’s hungry. He won’t get another chance of a mouthful of food for at least an hour and a half. The only alternative is a squashed banana.
I thought long and hard for about a second and a half, then glanced around to make sure no one was watching. I scooped up what remained of the poor fellow and drove to the station.
In the minute or so that I had available to me, sitting in the car park, I peered at the miserable ex-fruit lying in state on the passenger seat. It really was a sad sight. I must have trodden on the poor chap pretty hard as his guts were well and truly spilled. One internal voice urged me to do the decent thing, and consign him to the wheelie bin next to the ticket office. But another, breakfastless voice, shouted the opposite.
With only seconds left before my train was due to arrive, I knew I had to do the indecent thing. Full of self-loathing, I picked up this disembowelled object, prised it open and sort of emptied the liquidy contents into my mouth. The flavour was fine but the physical sensation was ghastly. It was cold and gritty. Not much of a consolation, but at least it was my shoe-grit that peppered the spilt flesh.
And really, I thought no more about it until mid-afternoon, when I reached over to my coat, to fish around in the pockets for a tissue. And you know what I found there?
Yes.
My banana.
