Not long ago, over one of those conversations that happen when neither party is truly sober enough to stop themselves, a friend asked me: "Why the apple? Why buy a book about apples?" Fair question, I suppose. There I was, proudly brandishing The Apple: A Delicious Story by Sally Coulthard — a book which, at first glance, sounds like something your retired uncle might write after one too many pints and an unfortunate fall from a ladder during apple-picking season.

But here’s the thing: imagine you're sitting in a pub, slightly tipsy, perhaps nursing a cider that's just dry enough to make your gums reconsider their existence. And all of a sudden, you start thinking about apples. Not metaphorical apples, nor the ones with half-eaten logos. Just apples — real, crisp, slightly tart, countryside-grown, juice-down-your-wrist apples.

Conversation starter? Perhaps not. Conversation ender? Almost certainly. But I thrive in such absurdities. It's a calling.