It’s indicative of how narrow my life has become that the highlight of my week is when Sainsbury’s, for a reason unbeknowest to this author, deliver two bags full of bananas with our usual shopping. Without charge. The delivery man looks at them askance, then I sign his form and he goes away.
‘Jess, where did all these bananas come from?’ H collapses against the door with laughter.
‘ I checked the receipt three times and couldn’t find any record of them,’ I protest.
It must be a gift, like the week of strange cheeses and lamb neck fillets, which are still in the freezer. I loathe lamb, but because of our parsimonious upbringing I can’t bring myself to throw it out.
At first the novelty is wonderful, because I love green bananas, but then they start to go brown. I refuse to eat ripe – let alone overripe – bananas, so H and our flatmate are left to fight the war against them. They lose, and now our house has become infused with a rank, tropical scent. So for those of you who care to see us over the next few weeks, be warned that you shall be plied with baked banana-borne bounty.