Freecycling Jam…

“A blackcurrant bush,” they said.

“Come and help yourself,” they said.

“Free,” they said.

Mr Fox looked at the back of his works van. Shook his head in bewilderment. The small trifle of a blackcurrant bush had turned out to be mostly triffid. And a large, gnarly, actively-resisting-being-dug-up triffid at that. It had taken three of them to lift it out of the hole, and it now filled the back of the van. All of the back of the van.

On his return to the earth, Mrs Fox was beside herself.

“Think of the jam! Preserve! Cake fillings! Consomme!”

She burbled happily, making busy with the spade and digging a very large hole into which the now rather sorry-for-itself triffid was lowered.

For the plant had not taken kindly to having its roots cut away by the weasel with the spade. Mr Fox was worried. He watered it profusely, in the vain hope that the bush would somehow suck up water directly into its severed root system. But over the weeks that followed, it faded. Leaves curled up and died. Nascent berries tried their best, but barely.

Three months later…

Mr Fox had admitted, he was sceptical about the possibility of a new jam taste. The damsons were on the way, and the mixed fruit jam from earlier in the year was still gracing the store cupboard shelves. And yet. Here they were, he and his vixen, de-stalking a moderate crop of blackcurrants.

The triffid had come through. Produced a modest 1 kilo of fruit, and had started to grow new shoots and green budding leaves. So the fruit was enjambed. The jars sterilised. The labels printed, ready for the sticking.

The best part, thought Mr Fox, was the Fox-Rule-Of-Jam-Making – no matter how many jars you have, there’s always a ramekin left over for foxy snouts.

Delicious.