Peculiar Fruit

A Cute & Maggie adventure

‘Oranges and Lemons Again’ Jools Holland and Suggs

Today, there is no citrus fruit.

It all begins innocuously enough: Maggie is in the kitchen getting the shopping list together. Milk, bread, check the fridge for vegetables. Huh, no lemons. Or limes.

No citrus fruit! Add them to the list.

She’s working at home so has decided to make time to visit the shops rather than order on-line. She’s lucky, in this part of town there’s a remarkable choice: Waitrose, Sainsbury’s, M&S, Aldi, all within shooting range, plus a whole bunch of North London middle class independents. If you want, you can stop off at a Gail’s in between delis.

She’s aiming for Sainsbury’s today: she’ll take the car.

She messages the others on the family WhatsApp: any special requests?

‘Tangerine’, Led Zeppelin

Cute, weirdly, asks for some easy-peel satsumas. She pictures him at his desk, or on surveillance, or in the easy chair with the pips. Pips? Sounds like a disease. Or a band. Or maybe the sound of the hour… No response from Anne or Sophie. Hey ho.

Maggie grabs the list, the bags, her phone, the keys. Drives, parks up, heads for the trolleys. It’s a fine early spring morning, not too busy, all good. Perfect, in fact: it’s the equinox, everything in balance. What could possibly go wrong?

Huh. Look at that. She stands, stock still, in the wide aisle. Potatoes, broccoli, carrots, onions – yes. Apples, pears, raspberries from Morocco – check. Oranges, lemons, tangerines – nope. None at all. Instead, a great empty array of green trays and black plastic frames. She looks more closely: grapefruit? Lime? Satsumas?

None at all. No citrus fruit.

The Lemon Song, Led Zeppelin

“Excuse me,” she asks, in her nicest ‘talking-to-someone-who-works-here-and-who-might-be-hostile voice’, “there are no…” and she sweeps a low gesturing arm towards the empty shelves.

“No,” comes the reply.

“Is there a…” she begins.

“Don’t know,” comes the second response. “No deliveries.”

“Oh,” says Maggie, maintaining the requisite air of gentle, pleasant enquiry. “Any idea when…”

“No idea,” the voice concludes, “probably later in the week.”

Helpful, says Maggie, inside her head. “Oh, ok, thank you,” she says, out loud.

She returns her gaze to the list, ambles and selects, scans the codes, drifts a little, lost in the supermarket as we all are, hums to herself, thinks about dinner, the weather, gets to the refrigerated aisle. Milk, butter, yoghurt, some cheese – shit. Where’s the…

Grapefruit Moon, Tom Waits

“Excuse me,” she says again, a few seconds later having found a Sainsbody (as Sophie and Cute like to call them). “Is there any…?” and again the sweeping gesture and this time towards the fresh juice section: there is apple juice, and apple and mango, and cranberry juice (sweetened), and pineapple juice – but no orange juice. No grapefruit juice. No juice at all that involves citrus fruit.

“Yeah, I know,” says the Sainsbody. “Not sure, sorry,” they say, anticipating the next question. “We’re waiting to hear from Head Office.”

Maggie experiences a cold and uncanny shudder down her neck. What the hell is this? She leaves the trolley unattended and sets off in search mode.

Orange Crush, REM

Lemon tart? No. Orange cupcakes? No. Marmalade??

Oh my god. There’s no marmalade.

Maggie stands before the preserves, confronted only by acres of peanut butter and Bonne Maman confiture and home brand strawberry jam. She pulls out her phone and begins typing. The War in the Middle East unfolds in its madness. Climate breakdown proceeds steadily. Governments of various hues continue to disappoint. There is nothing about citrus fruit.

This can’t be happening, she thinks. Maybe it really is something specific to this store.

She finds her trolley, decides to abandon the rest of the shop, manages to pay for the things she’s already got and heads out.

Rip it up, Orange Juice

She dumps the various bags in the boot of the car and heads for the High Street. The mini Waitrose, surely that’ll have some? But no.

M&S? Aldi? The independent fruit stand just off the roundabout?

No citrus fruit. Of any kind.

This is getting scary now. Has the system broken down that quickly? She can just about think that the fresh fruit might suddenly be in short supply: maybe all the world’s limes pass through the Strait of Hormuz? Or maybe all the processing plants rely on a particular chemical that’s been accumulating in the UAE and can’t get out? Maybe the pocked surface of citrus fruit poses unexpected challenges for the infrastructure?

Or maybe someone has started stockpiling? Will there be a ransom demand?

But what about the longer-life stuff? Orange juice in those long-life cartons last ages, doesn’t it? Why is that missing?

And the marmalade! What’s that about?

Rubycon, Tangerine Dream

Maybe the whole thing’s just a blip, she thinks, some weird and short-lived nightmare that hasn’t even made the news yet. She heads back to the car. It’s spring, look. Equinox is… right now… The light’s coming back. The lunatics can only be in charge for so long before they’re deposed. We just need to hang on in there. Deep breaths.

Things can only get better.

Can’t they?