It’s the best job.
Sitting cross legged in the dirt, head down, peering between the leaves, looking for flashes of red.
Nothing but me and the chooks.
It’s five minutes of breathing space.
Stolen time in the strawberry patch.
I eat as many as I like, there are so many that the ones I eat will not be missed.
I wonder, as I do every year, why on earth I eat the tasteless strawberries we buy from the shops.
But I know why.
I am impatient.
I can not wait, and hope, and water, and drip stinky did fish water on my shoes, and wait, and hope, and fight off the snails and slugs, and hope, and wait.
I can not wait all year for the few weeks when the strawberries are ripe.
It seems ridiculous now. Now that there are more ripe strawberries than I ever have time to pick, let alone eat.
It seems preposterous that I am so impatient, that I can not wait for these glorious few weeks that make me realise how lucky we are.