I couldn’t understand what the food delivery bloke was saying to me. His accent was as heavy as his helmet and his words were getting lost in it. At the flats where I live, you’re never more than five minutes away from a weary rider like this turning up bearing someone’s tea, dinner, breakfast, lunch, snack, whatever. They’re not usually there for me, but it has been known.
As I parked near the entrance, I saw him hand over his goods to a neighbour, but, unusually, he seemed in no hurry to speed off. He stood there looking up at something, before getting back on his moped and making to leave. But then he looked up again, thought better of leaving and got back off his moped. It was then that he came over to me saying words I couldn’t quite catch. He pointed up at the tree we were standing beneath and then I heard him properly, saying: “Please, if I pick cherry, is that OK?”
