It is that time of year again.

Not the time of year when the grass is too soggy to hold my wheelchair and I am relegated to  the confines of the path, – that came a few weeks ago. (Still it helps me avoid the dog-walking mafia.)

No, I am talking about apple season.

This is the time of year when those of us lucky to have apple trees will lament the sheer quantity of fruit we are now laden with.

This is the time of year when neighbours stop making eye contact with me, running away in dread lest I shove a bag of apples in their hand. (They still the remember the  Great Tomato plant incident of 2020 – some still don’t speak to me.)

This is the time of year when greeting friends is pre-empted with the swapping of carrier bags, silently fuming that you don’t want their bloody apples, you have enough of your own. But with steely eye contact you pass over your bag of bounty,  secretly glad that your bag was much heavier than there’s.

We have two small apple trees, both always heavily laden with fruit. This was great when they kids were at home. If only because we had a wider circle of acquaintances to pass on apples too.

            ‘Here, give this bag of apples to your mum, love.’ The poor unsuspecting child used as a patsy to force the receiving of apples.

I ask everyone to have some – the Asda delivery driver looked confused when I tried to pop a bag back in the empty basket.

            ‘Is it a return?’ he asked.

            ‘No, just a gift.’ I smiled desperately.

Looking in the bag he sighed.

            ‘We’re not allowed to accept gifts, ’ handing the bag back.  – I bet he wouldn’t have said that to a bottle of whisky.

I’ve taken to hanging bags on the handles of people’s front doors. I used to leave a little note but then realised they could trace the evidence back to me. And its not as if I am giving them poison. Its not as if I am tempting them with forbidden knowledge – its just a bag of bloody apples.

And they are beautiful apples – eaters now, cookers in a few weeks. They are crisp and fragrant.

Yes, they can be a bit scabby (but so are we all) and if you cut that piece off they are fine.  They are great to eat straight, even better in a salad with some cheese. Or coleslaw, or a Waldorf salad. Or added to a vegetable stew to be serves with sausages.

They make the best apple cake, and pies, and crumbles. I even stew them to add as sweetener to homemade granola. Honestly they are fab.

They just never end.

The problem is at this time of year the market is saturated, so my only choice is to hunt people down and force my apples on them.

It will never end.

One of my elderly neighbours, in her 90s, is still peddling her apples around the neighbourhood. The woman can barely walk, she has no business lugging bags of fruit.  And you can bet she uses that frail old lady act to get rid of her harvest. It’s brutal. I swear she gave me a sly wink, sauntering back empty handed while I was knee deep in apples.

Last year I simply hung bags over the back gate with a sign saying FREE. They went in the end, though I suspect only for the local kids to throw at each other, but by that time I didn’t care.

I kept a load, carefully wrapping them in newspaper to eat during the winter. The smell in the cupboard was lovely – made a nice change from dog treats, but the apples had a weird meaty taste which I now realise why.

The sun is rising as I type this, and I realise I am wasting precious hours typing when I could be posting apples through neighbours letterboxes. So, you will have to excuse me.

Oh, before I go, do you want any apples?