On Thursday morning Ruben and I walked to the village to check the mail and stock up on bananas.
After our usual rounds of post office and park, I bought about a half dozen bananas, all a healthy yellow with flecks of black on their skin. I pushed the pram out onto the footpath outside the IGA and proceeded to peel the young man a banana. As I handed it to him, he looked at me with deep expectation, as if to say, “And …?”
I looked at the peel in my hand. There was no more banana.
“Sorry mate, there’s no more. That’s The Whole Banana.”
He looked at the pale yellow curve in his hand. He likes to have half a banana in each hand, but this banana, though not tiny, was not worth breaking in half. He pulled a face to indicate his disappointment, before mashing it into his mouth in three man-sized bites.
It’s been one of those weeks for me in writing. I’ve had my banana – it’s not a big banana, I don’t need two hands to hold it. Sometimes it’s The Whole Banana, and that’s better than no banana at all.