Too many apples per day when there’s no work and no play, the doctors say

We are, apparently, in these strange and straitened times, all eating and drinking too much. This is particularly prevalent among what are cutely referred to by various elements of the news media as “young pensioners”, an oxymoron if ever I heard one but a category into which I, rapidly approaching that age made famous by The Beatles in a well-known pop ditty, fit only too snugly.

This kind of activity and the thinking behind it, I freely admit, find themselves into all areas of life as it is currently lived, not just mealtimes and the many daily instances of Home Happy Hour.

This means, it is easy to spot where my true obsessions lie. Picture the scene. The Significant Other and I are sitting in the kitchen of a blustery autumnal morning, steaming mugs of coffee in hand, looking out at the garden and contemplating all the cutting back and bulb planting we’re probably not going to do any time soon. The radio is playing and as the clock hits the hour, the news comes on.

As ever, there’s all the usual depressing nonsense which we now allow, in our increasingly ostrich-like way, to go right over our addled old heads. There is, after all, only so much doom, gloom, d e s p o n d e n c y, tales of unqualified individuals making millions out of the taxpayer and suffering no legal or moral pay-back, and Donald Trump yelling: “Eh’m no’ playin’!” that one person can take.

Thus you can imagine our instant if somewhat puzzled joint reaction when the bulletin ended with the tale of a theft from a goods lorry hijacked travelling the motorways of southern England (while it still can, no thanks to the new “boy” band, Boris and the Brexiteers). What was nicked was described as millions of pounds’ worth of “apple-related products”.

Being extremely concerned with conspicuous consumption and the varied means of getting our five-a-day in ways other than via what we add to our everlengthening cocktail menu, we both, simultaneously, as it turns out, thought: “Cider? Calvados? Cloudy juice? Pie? Turnovers? Charlottes? Crumble?”

Could there be a ready black market for such hitherto blameless goodies now that half the country is going to get its collar felt if it dares to tunnel its way out to the nearest shop for anything classed as “inessential”?

Would the modern-day equivalent of Dad’s Army’s Private Walker be found lurking in the darker corners of an otherwise deserted Tier 4 mall, sporting a

grubby raincoat whose lining is overloaded with slightly bruised Bramleys, saucy pictures of Pink Ladies and the odd wonky Cox? How do you like them apples?

But no. It turns out the report was referring to “Apple-related products” of a technologically advanced nature unfamiliar to those of us who still hanker after the d ay s of the beribboned, rolled-up parchment and the quill pen. Mind you, I suppose it isn’t that big a step from Apple Macs to McIntosh Reds (or even Reddits) if you have a particularly strange and vivid imagination and less to keep your thoughts occupied than might ordinarily be the case.

Lockdown has a lot to answer for on the fruit front. I still haven’t forgiven it for the invasion of the killer banana bread.

Perhaps that essential piece of computer kit, the dual core processor, actually refers to someone who peels apples twice as fast

as anyone else, or maybe the smug beggar who always produces the longest piece of unbroken skin. Maybe we could all compare notes like a virtual version of the Great British Bake-Off and tell everyone we know about it via Whatsapple. Before it gives us all the pip…

And speaking of technology, I am, as you know, a cat lover of many years standing. I have great respect for these amazing animals and their ability to wind humanity round the feline equivalent of their collective little finger.

So I was fascinated to hear of a new scientific breakthrough allegedly enabling humans to understand what their cat is trying to tell them.

One Javier Sanchez, a former Alexa engineer (and more importantly, chief of staff to a cat called Mittens), has come up with MeowTalk, an app that translates cat

sounds into words and phrases. Now, many who are lucky enough to have pets during this time of isolation will probably feel that they have bonded even more closely but trust me, it doesn’t take an app for any cat to make itself understood.

I would hazard the observation that apps and “smart collars” which can be triggered from outside to send a text to the human inside (have these people never heard of microchip-activated cat flaps?) are about as much use as a set of indicators on a BMW.

No less a literary titan than Nobel Prizewinner TS Eliot once wrote that: “The naming of cats is a serious matter.”

The reverse of that sage advice being that you probably don’t want to know what your cat is calling you. Leave MeowTalk alone. Any self-respecting cat’s got your tongue in more ways than one already.

FRUITY: Maybe a modern-day Private Walker, from Dad’s Army, could cater to clandestine apple customers, Helen posits.