I'd never been strawberry picking before. The sun was high and the air hot, and standing out in the field the breeze brought the smell of rotting strawberries up on a silver platter. The most delicious air I've ever breathed, it was like standing in a jar of jam, but without the drawbacks of standing in a jar of jam, like stickiness, which is what happens when you standin a jar of jam. It looked an entirely uninspiring way to spend an afternoon, until someone pointed me towards the older rows, where the plants were thick and rampant, and the strawberries invisible beneath hairy leaves. Right then, it no longer became about having strawberries, but finding them. It turned into a treasure hunt, and the discovery of the treasure was more important than the treasure itself. I stayed in the fields long after everyone else had filled their punnets and retired to the cafe, lifting leaves and parting bushes, looking for that one perfect red strawberry.
Then, I ate them. With ice cream.
The End.
