I seem to have injured myself by eating an orange. I felt fine until about four-thirty this afternoon, when I ate the orange, after which I’ve been wracked with abdominal pain. Too low to be something in my stomach, it feels like I must have inadvertently stabbed myself while slicing the orange open, but in such an absent-minded way that I forgot I did so.
As a result, I want to lie on my back in a darkened room and groan feebly, but this only causes great amusement for my daughter, who rushes over and slaps my stomach while laughing. The fact that she’s grinning cutely, and in between these assaults nuzzles and kisses my beard, makes up for some of the pain I’m feeling, but I swear I’ll never touch an orange again if this is what happens.
Jeanette Winterson was right; Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit.
To distract myself from the pain, I read the Wikipedia entry on the BBC adaptation of Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit, which, by a roundabout route, informed me that the same actress who played a young Jeanette Winterson also had the role of Marmalade Atkins and Scarlett in Four Weddings And A Funeral, _and_ a role in The Young Poisoner’s Handbook, a film which clued me in to B Bumble And The Stingers, as well as the perils of drinking tea in a camera factory. It’s strange how small the world of British TV and film could be.
Today was better than yesterday, pain aside, because I did at least manage to get up and walk around a bit. I didn’t quite achieve as many steps as the Fitbit mandated (despite going for a run at 6:30 this morning), but at least I filled more than half the bar with activity. Also, there were scones for tea. And not oranges.