Why I don't like fruit
From a very young age, I haven’t liked fruit. I can drink fresh orange and apple juice, but I cannot eat the fruit itself. It’s partly a texture thing, and partly a smell thing. I cannot, for example, stand the smell of pineapple; it encourages my gag reflex to go into an enthusiastic spasm. One night I grabbed a slice of pizza from the bar of our local during the regular Tuesday night acoustic showcase, thinking it was ham and cheese – it wasn’t, and I spent the next five minutes retching like a supermodel and trying to disguise the taste in my mouth by downing my pint as quickly as I could and helping myself to crisps from the bar.

Strawberries, or rather, the smell of them, give me a headache. I discovered this on a strawberry picking trip with my ex and mother in law. I always used to get dragged along on these expeditions, on account of how not liking the damned things gave me a distinct advantage when it came to picking them. In other words, I’d have three punnets done by the time that they had filled half of one due to the “one for the pot, three for me” rule. Being outdoors wasn’t the problem, as the fresh air negated any aroma. No, the headache inducing bit was discovered on a trip home in the car with six freshly filled punnets of strawberries sitting proudly on the parcel shelf. By the time I got home I had the mother of all headaches from the smell of those little red bastards and had to lie down.

This all arose, I think, from a life changing experience in a primary school dining hall. I’ve been a good boy, and eaten all my dinner. Sat there, with the school regulation plastic apron on (in case of spillages), I’m looking at the dessert which has been presented to me and am steadfastly refusing to eat it. It’s fruit salad, with ice cream. OK, I can manage the ice cream, but the fruit salad is just sitting there, looking squishy and slimy and a really horrible shade of orange. It smells funny, too. I really don’t want to eat it, but all of my friends are leaving the dining hall, and teacher is looking at me, miming putting a spoon to his mouth. What he was really saying was “Hurry up, you little shit, the teachers want to have their dinner in peace without the noise of 100 screaming five year olds ringing in their ears”. I shake my head. He repeats the mime. I shake my head again. The dining hall is now empty. He does the mime again, pleading with his eyes, but determined not to let me leave until I’ve emptied my plate because times are hard and waste is bad.

I look at him, then at the bowl. There’s not much, I can do this. Spoon in hand, and sweating like Gary Glitter with Michael Jackson’s address book, I go in for the kill. Two swift motions ensure the contents of the bowl don’t last long. I look at the teacher; he gives a motion with his head that says, “Well done, now fuck off.” I push my chair back and make for the exit. Which just happens to be situated right next to the teacher’s table.

As I’m approaching the door, I feel that familiar gut rumbling and sudden rush of saliva to the mouth… instinct kicks in, and I speed up, hoping to get to the toilets in time. Speeding up just makes things worse as the contents of my five year old belly just jiggle about dangerously. I’m next to the teacher’s table now. Please, don’t be sick. Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick. Don’t be… too late. I can’t control it anymore. I have the presence of mind to lean forward and place my hands beneath my plastic apron, fashioning it into a rudimentary bucket, and… BLOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHH! What seems like gallons of undigested fruit and ice cream and whatever was for dinner ejects itself forcibly, raining down into the makeshift plastic bucket and making a ferocious drumming sound as it does… The teachers are not impressed but owing to the duty of care they have, are forced to get me to the toilets in order to be able to dispose of the offending effluent. So I’m led away, still bent over, still holding my apron as a bucket, sick slopping over the sides, recoiling from the smell, and crying for my mum.

And that’s why I don’t like fruit.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Wed 13 Jan 2010, 16:53, 2 replies)

*click*
First off: No, I'm not an advocate for letting kids stuff their faces with junkfood and/or letting them do whatever they please.
That said, the dining-hall story is yet another excellent example for why forcing a child to eat something they truly hate is a BAD idea. Stubborn parents and caretakers take note - or you might just get chundered on!
(lanternchikk hat eine schwere Bohlenallergie, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 1:02, closed)

This
happened at our school a LOT, mainly due to the E-number ladened custard of the late 80's which went on EVERY desert, and that most seven-year-old's stomachs couldn't quite handle.
They didn't give us fruit; I imagine if they did it'd be similar. *clicks*
(MightyX5 living on a small island on, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 1:36, closed)