I bite into the plum, hoping for juice, taste, bursts of flavour. It's soft, but pulpy and tastes vaguely of the suggestion of plum, in a watery halfhearted way. I sigh, and bin it.
I get hit with longing to be somewhere where I can reach up above me into the warm air, and pluck a piece of ripe fruit from the tree. Something decadent, a pear, a nectarine, a plum even, warmed by the sun and yielding so its skin slides beneath my teeth and there's no way to eat it without getting sticky and losing my dignity a tiny bit.
Not Tesco fruit, hard and flavourless and forced, that's turned to mush before it ever really ripens.
Perfectly ripe fruit that tastes of sweetness and sun, completely of the unadulterated essence of itself.