British National Pear Conference

An ode to the pear. A modest fruit. I'm uncertain as to what kind of foolishness incites the curious relationship I have with the pear. I am confused by my own feelings. One day I will crave the aromatic buttery flesh. The next I am indifferent. It's nothing the pear has done. It's me, not you, pear. The pear has the right to stand proud and magnificent in its russeted skin. When I can be bothered to sink my teeth into the bulbous rear I almost always regret not doing so sooner. I feel ashamed for neglecting the pear for so long. I vow never to do so again as long as I live. But of course, this I have forgotten by the following sunrise. I am fickle. My attentions are stolen away in a flight of fancy with the exotic banana and its libertine ways. I rendezvous with the royal gala and its crisp and firm rotundness. I will savour those precious moments spent with the pear when the mood again takes me. Until then, patient pear.