Oranges

I do not like oranges.
I’ll write that again – just to make it very clear.
I do not like oranges.

In Athens, orange trees grow on either side of the road, utterly unwanted.

It is true that juice companies are gradually beginning to market Greek oranges with eye-catching notes on their packs saying ‘Made from real Greek Oranges!‘ As a normal thing, though, Greek oranges often have the reputation of being so sour that only the British could possibly want them. And even the British can use it only for marmalade.
As a result, piles of oranges are swept to the side of the road, much like we have dead leaves waiting to be burnt. While in Greece, my sister often stole oranges silently and self-consciously from rubbish heaps and defiantly ate them.

Needless to say, I never did.

I’ve voluntarily eaten a whole orange once in my life. Orange-eaters everywhere are wide-eyed at the story.

I was on a ship to Lakshadweep and had not yet discovered that being on the deck was the best cure for sea-sickness. Sitting inside, I felt awful. Bad air-conditioning and the smell of people and boiled rice mixed together made me want to throw up. People suggested a cure – something citrus. There were no lemons, so I had to eat an orange.
But, as I may have mentioned before, I do not like oranges.
But I had to eat it.
So I ate it with a roti.
Yes, it made the orange palatable to me, so perhaps orange eaters may think it’s worth a try. What say?