Above the olive line

I'm sure that up and down the gardens of England there are many more splendid olives than this one. But this is my olive and I'm quite proud of it. The others on the tree are the size of grape pips but this one, apart from being a bit knobbly, is close to being a viable olive and has turned the right colour.

I may need to be corrected in believing that olives are rare in England. Even as I write the presses may be squeezing out their golden bounty from olive groves secreted in the gardens of Kent and Sussex. But I doubt it somehow. If you totted up the UK's annual production of olive oil I'd guess that in a good year it might be enough to fill a thimble.

Yes, it's a guess that risks provoking the ire of olive-growing Brits who might boast crops big enough to garnish a plate of humus; and, yes it risks the ridicule of olive-growing blippers in Greece, Spain and Italy who fill our supermarket shelves with all kinds of fancy brands in their square green bottles.

But I never saw olives as a kid and I only knew Olive Oil as Popeye's girlfriend. Vegetable oil was a luxury and lard or pork dripping was the staple for anything that went in the frying pan. As a result my arterial walls must have the texture of a hamster's coat by now, not a very reassuring reflection. How times have changed.