There’s nothing like a bit of fresh fruit to start the day with, especially when it has been plundered the night before. It was my 67yr old friend who made me do it – honest! She led me into temptation by leading me past the fig tree in her lane. She had tried to get her hands on some earlier in the day, but being too short had failed. Frustrated, she knew exactly who to call; a lofty, 5’10 fig addict – me.
We did it under the dead of night. Not because we were ‘stealing’ (I had been assured that the tree was in a garden that hadn’t been tended to in years), but because we had decided to go out for a meal first and collect them on the way back – that way they would be extra fresh for breakfast.
With only the moonlight to guide me, I reached over the wall and pulled down branch, after branch, after branch. A white, milky substance oozed from each fig where it had been removed from the tree.
“They look just like little breasts,” I said, rolling a nipple-like stalk between my fingers.
“Oh yes,” said my friend, giggling. “I’ll never be able to look at a fig in the same way again!”
Our laughter must have drawn attention to our presence, as we heard something rustling in the undergrowth behind the tree.
“Let’s go,” whispered my friend as she darted off down the lane – she may be a pensioner, but she can’t half lift her legs when she wants too.
“But I thought you said this garden was….oh never mind,” I said, trying to catch her up, figs bouncing around in my hand bag.
When we reached her terrace we burst into laughter. “Oh, I haven’t had so much fun in ages,” she said, trying to catch her breath.
“Me neither,” I replied, legs crossed, trying desperately not to wet myself.
“I know where we can get our hands on some more,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.
“Aren’t we getting a bit old for plundering?” I replied.
“Absolutely not!” she said, sinking her false teeth into one of the juiciest, ripest figs I have ever seen.