“Now, what do I want from here?”, I said to myself as I stood, with my pantry door open. Actually, I spoke the words aloud, as I often do when by myself (well there’s nobody else to talk to and I don’t want my voice to shut down, do I?), but don’t tell anybody else that. They might think I am going a bit potty.
“Ah! Juice, juice, juice, juice,” I said, remembering why I was standing there. I had just come inside, exhausted, thirsty and bone-weary from an afternoon’s mowing in the hot sun.
“Glass, glass, glass, glass,” I said, moving to the kitchen cupboard to retrieve one.
“Pour, pour, pour, pour,” I repeated, setting the glass down on the kitchen bench.
“Drink, drink, drink, drink,” I chanted, when with sudden realisation dawning of just how weary I was, came “No! Sit, sit, sit, sit.”
“Aw, fuck,” I groaned, gently lowering my old, creaking bones into my favourite chair.
“Now, drink, drink, drink, drink,” I murmured with complete satisfaction as I downed the best apple juice this side of the orchard of the gods.
End of conversation, as I relaxed for a while, enjoying the moment, and losing myself in my own thoughts until I recovered enough to return outside to complete my mowing task for the day.
This juice, and other varieties from the same source, are made locally in the Yarra Valley, purely from locally grown Royal Gala apples and nothing else. They are obtainable from Yarra Farm Fresh, with whom I have no connection other than as a happy customer (and no, you don’t have to be a potty old dude who talks to himself (and may use the occasional expletive) to do that).