Three weeks ago on Thursday I bought a kilo of plums from Coles. They were a deep purple colour and reminded me of pert bottoms as they lay in my beautiful Turkish clay fruit bowl. That was three weeks ago. I would occasionally pick one up to feel it to put in my lunchbox. But they were still hard. Give them time I thought. Last weekend I went to a wonderful women’s conference in Sydney. My moggy minder, Elaine messaged that she had eaten a plum. She even said yum. I was encouraged. Ripe plums to return to. I returned from the conference and looked at my plums as I sorted a pile of washing to go into the front loader. I turned then over one by one. Still hard. I did notice that a cockroach or a desperate mouse had taken a wee bit out of one. I tossed it away. Every day I picked up a plum to put in my lunchbox. Still hard. Hmmm. But they looked beautiful. A bit like some people I suppose. All beauty and promise but tasteless and hard inside. Not that I am a cannibal.

I have just returned from a wonderful weekend in Bellingen at the Readers and Writers Festival which had previously inspired me to write my second to last blog post. I am inspired to once again give this poor old dead blog metaphorical mouth to mouth rescusitation, and to start and maintain a disciplined writing practive to share with my friends, family and new readers (hopefully) and also an interested editor searching for new talent (double hopefully). I fed the cat on my return, check my messages, put on the kettle and looked at the plums. I felt the plums. Still hard. I am mystified. I eat a grape instead.

What does one do with three week old hard plums? Is there a life lesson to be learned here? Are they are a metaphor for my life? Will they ever soften up or will they stay hard forever, destined to be thrown out on the lawn for the pointy beaked birds to toss and roll amongst the grass blades before they blunt their beaks looking for the sweet golden flesh masked by those shining purple skins.

What is their history? were these plums gassed into a state of pre ripened dormancy? Were they ripped off the branch while still longing to cling to nurture by the mother tree? Did they mourn being warmed by the sun and drenched by the rain due to their premature harvest? Poor unready plums, forced to fill shelves so we consumers can fill our bellies.

I’ll give them another week I think, before I throw their purple loveliness out to the birds. I go away again at Easter, which is two weeks away. Maybe I should leave them there. If I do, maybe they would become raisins.

I wonder.

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