There is an art to peeling an orange.

  If you happen to get one of the ones with a very thin skin, it can become much more of a challenge.  You have to dig a nail into the orange armour, cutting it just enough to get through and get a grip, but not far enough to pierce the soft flesh underneath.  If you’re unlucky and cut too strongly, you’ll go through and get a thumbful of juice squirting into your eyes as a reward.

  Of course, if you’re too timid you’ll never get all the way in, and you’ll peel of layer after paper-thin layer of pitted orange pith without ever truly getting to the heart of the matter.

  Yes, there is an art to peeling an orange, an art to sliding in at just the right angle and not smashing it to pieces or glancing off it without truly penetrating.  There is an art to timing things correctly, to opening the orange at the right stage, and watching it ripen before you approach and make your entry.  There is an art to eating an orange, an art to digesting it, even an art to disposing of it at a later stage.

  I can’t recall when my first orange was - my memories of the fruit are never that vivid, truth be told.  My first real memory of oranges as being significant objects is that from my time working in the kitchen, knocking over a small pile of them and trying to catch them with my fumbling hands as they clattered and thumped their way down the shelves.  The cook never noticed, too busy with whatever concoction she was making that moment, and the other staff gave me barely a second glance.  My clumsy attempts to deal with the obnoxious fruit thus set the stage for my future attempts - failures, and ignored ones at that.

  As I grew older, I was initially shy of trying my skill at orange-peeling.  I am sure that, somewhere deep inside, I knew that this was due to that first thumping clatter of falling fruit, but this knowledge brought no relief.  I developed something of a mild phobia, my muscles freezing and refusing to obey my commands the moment I lay eyes upon an orange that I might desire to peel.  It wasn’t until I swallowed my nerves and started work in a grocery store, a place where the fruits were to be seen at every hour of the day, that I began to tackle my problem with any degree of success.

  That success has still not fully matured.  Certainly, I have managed to peel an orange or two during my time at the shop, but my contract runs out shortly and I will be forced to leave.  It is a shame - in my stay here I believe I have managed to somewhat subvert my fear of that deadly luminous plant product, to the degree that I now find myself strangely drawn to them.  Or perhaps it is not so strange - I have, after all, always been aware of how desirable and tasty a decent orange can be.  It has always been simply my fear that has held me back.

  It still does, to some extent.  When I approach an orange now, I have to fight those muscular spasms that threaten to immobilise me and root me to the spot.  I still have to force myself to reach out and pick it up, to make that initial contact that promises so much pleasure or, alternately, so much aggravation.  And even today, my attempts to peel an orange sometimes result in a squirt of burning juice in the eye or in an endless struggle with layer after unforgiving layer of pith until I can take it no more and must cast the orange aside, furious with myself for expending so much energy on such a fruitless task.

  Yet I persevere.  Eventually, one day, perhaps, I will find myself surrounded by oranges with perfect peels, soft segments and with such a tender taste that I will, at last, be content.