Remember the glorious days of scrumping for fruit? Of scrambling up walls with the risk of a grazed knee (getting a ‘war wound’ only seemed to add to the excitement of it).
You’d peer over gingerly, stomach churning in case you were spotted by an irate house owner.
Up the tree you’d go as your lookout stood underneath holding a plastic bag. Then that first illicit bite of fruit would send the juice dribbling down your chin.
I was reminded of this recently as I strolled home one evening somewhat worse for wear and passed some juice overhanging blackberries.
The temptation was too much. With hands full of thorn pricks and blue fingers, I scuttled off home with my prized ‘treasure’. Wonderful.