About time and mangoes

Time, not a universal, fixed measurement and don’t get me started on the accuracy of clocks. They know nothing! Never have, never will. Time moves at all sorts of speeds and is always relative. Subjective. An exercise in negotiation, or, perhaps a conversation between patience and stubbornness.

Spending time with my dad always slows me down. Snails overtake me with a jolly laugh and I don’t mind at all. I like this super slow unfolding of time. This, not inertia. On the contrary. Lots of ‘ertia’! All go and all change – but it happens so slowly that I can inspect the most minute detail, taking my time to observe, disect, or simply go with the gentle flow. No rush.

I’m in my old hometown. There are absolutely no sights. No ‘big things’ to do. My main goal – other than being with my dad, of course – is to try out all the flavours of my local ice cream parlour. I’m here for twelve days, so, if I work my way through the selection, two scoops at a time, I should be able get a taste of all the ones I’m curious to try.

When it comes to ice cream, there are very few ‘no go flavours’ for me, but there are some. Well, perhaps one. We’ll see. I’ll let you into a secret: For some reason I cannot quite fathom, mango and me have never quite managed to come to an understanding. I love fruit. Pretty much all fruit. But then, there’s mango. Hm. I have tried to love it. Everyone else seems to do so. Somehow, my tastebuds don’t compute this fruit. I can only taste soap. And not in a nice, pleasant way. Just the jucky, soapy way.

There you go. Now you know something about me that you don’t really need to know. I would like to love mango, but I don’t seem to be able to, no matter how often I try.

I can’t even bring myself to put a picture of a mango on my blog, so, I’m afraid you’re stuck with a hydrangea from my dad’s garden. Totally NOT a mango.

Picture credit: Britta Benson

Happy Tuesday to you all, and I’ll see you here tomorrow, if you wish!

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