Sunday 8 February 2026

For years, my fig tree has been a testament to endurance. It survived the upheaval of house moves, the stress of being repotted, and the plummeting temperatures of harsh winters. It even survived Zozo, my dog, who seemed determined to prune the branches with his teeth.

Starting this summer, when I saw a small fruit bud—the first sign of a harvest since the tree was planted years ago, I was very happy. A proud moment for the gardner in me.

A small green bud was growing into young fig fruit, the green colour of the skin ripening into purple. I was waiting patiently for the day when it would be full ripe ready to be plucked and eaten.

But maybe this was not how it was meant to be, I saw my fig half eaten.