Sour oranges, bitter pill, sweet pineapple

She holds out a bag in her right hand. It is full of little oranges, the ones that grow here in the Seychelles. They’re very sour with lots of pips. The bitter pill is in her left hand. She gives me back my story, folded up. She’s read it to her children. “They laughed at it,” she says. “It sounds so Enid Blytonish.......children here wouldn’t say “Oh my gosh!” and it didn’t ring true for me either.” “Well, it was presumptuous of me to write a story for that age group, when I don’t have any contact with them,” I say. “I hope you’re not upset,” she says. “No,” I say. “It’s what I needed to hear. I asked for your honest opinion.” So, now I'm home with my sour oranges and my bitter pill. My neighbour calls me over. She has a huge sweet, sweet Seychelles pineapple. The season is almost over. She cuts me a generous chunk. Yay, someone from Portugal has read my blog and likes it. He's sent me a hug.
I peel some of the little oranges, squish out the bitter pips and put the fleshy segments at the base of a bowl. I add bananas, mango (from Randolph, the fruit seller at the beach), papaya (off our own tree) and the sweet, sweet pineapple. My husband comes home. “Lucy’s kids made fun of my story,” I say. “It’s rubbish – but I needed to hear it. But a man in Portugal likes my blog." We laugh and eat the fruit salad. It’s delicious and the pineapple is so, so sweet.