Of fallen baby carrots

I don’t even know why I’m writing this entry.


So I pulled out a packet of baby carrots from the fridge, and that’s when I felt:

The small sensation of depression against my purple Superdry jacket.

The light touch of cold objects against my thighs as they bounced or rolled.

The sound of small rod-like objects hitting the floor, falling in brief consecutive soft, solid thuds. Thud, thud, thud. 

I looked at the pitiful fragmented orange mess on the floor and let out a cry of dismay. “Oh no.”


Cursing myself for being careless, and feeling sorry for the baby carrots on floor, I picked them off one by one off the black tiles. The metal sieve gave firm grunts of acknowledgement for each carrot I tossed in. I gave them carrots a shower under the tap, that cloud of dismay still above my head, separated half of them into an aluminium wrap for lunch, and the rest into a bowl for later.


Satisfied, I stepped out of the kitchen, my left index finger and thumb estimating the size of a baby carrot in the air.


“Oh.” I said to myself. One baby carrot had rolled itself into the living room. You poor thing. I picked it up, washed it, and slipped it into the bowl in the fridge where it joined the rest of saved orange.