I hate strawberries. I mean I properly detest them in all their juicy, red nastiness.
No apology is offered for my anti-strawberry stance and I don’t expect you to understand it. After all, you haven’t had the same life experience as I have, especially with regard to the fruit of the Degaria Ananassa or common strawberry.
I despise their texture, smell and taste, in all the forms they arrive in, be it fresh, frozen, chopped, jam, even flavouring.
Even covered in cream or hidden in a tasty looking cake, I abhor them, and there is no way of hiding their nastiness from me, no matter how artfully they may be dressed up.
To be honest, what started as a healthy dislike for those seed covered bastards turned into an intense hatred, due to a traumatic bullying event when I was seven years old. I’m not going to go into detail, but trust me, it was a highly unpleasant experience.
For a long time I had to leave the room if somebody else was eating them.
Still… I haven’t let my hatred take over my life. Not even a little bit. After all, why get upset about it all.
Let me be quite clear about this:
- I’m not upset that many, many people consider me strange for my dislike of this popular berry.
- I don’t mind people who try to persuade me to accept a taste even in the face of several polite refusals.
- I no longer have to leave the room in order not to disturb somebody eating them with my loud retching.
- Strawberries in of themselves have done nothing to raise my ire.
But still, I hate strawberries.
Having said that, there are quite a few reasons why I have no problem with other people enjoying them.
For one thing, I know of no recorded cases of strawberry farmers insisting that I eat their produce and claim that it is a divine requirement that I do so.
Never, have I read any news reports of strawberries attacking raspberries, with the single aim of wiping them off the face of the planet simply because they are different.
As far as I can ascertain, there hasn’t been a single woman disfigured by having strawberry milkshake thrown in her face, due to her perhaps complaining that she might like the occasional loganberry instead.
Reuters has completely failed to notify me of any strawberry farmers’ having their buildings fire-bombed, because they had to destroy a crop due to disease, or simply because they didn’t think they were quite ready for the responsibility of a new crop they planted by accident.
My resistance to accepting a strawberry from a friend or acquaintance has never been followed up by the threat of beheading.
I can travel quite safely in any corner of the world, safe in the knowledge that I won’t be lynched or sent to prison, along with the mandatory brutal lashings that go with it, if I happen to wear the badge shown on the left.
Never have I been accosted in the streets by Strawberryologists dressed in their uniform of red button-down shirt, dark slacks and polished shoes, asking if I’d like an S-Meter reading. Nor have my Sunday mornings been disturbed by bells or wailing calling me to purchase soft fruit from my local greengrocer.
I don’t have to constantly justify my complete happiness at living a strawberry free life on Twitter or FaceBook.
No strawberry farmer has to my knowledge, ever wandered the streets looking for people eating blueberries and demand that they stop breaking Strawbriah Law.
I can quite happily run for public office, regardless of my strawberry-free life and have no need to keep it secret.
If only more things in life were like strawberries.
I hate strawberries, but that doesn’t mean I can’t live a full and happy life without them.