Carey, get out your cane

I spend most lunchtimes lounging in that hammock. I'm a bit of a hammock-hog. But the ants only seem to bite me, and seeing as the ants will swarm over absolutely anything you put on the ground, I monopolise the cool security of the suspended seat. Honestly, thirty seconds after putting your radio, plate, mug, bag, FEET on the ground then they are swarming all over it, engaged in the most dogged investigation. On this occasion I'm enjoying the sweet, if strangely fibrous, sugarcane that Oli bought me for my birthday. Considering we are, yes I have to keep saying it, 3000km from the nearest shop it was pretty amazing that I got anything. But I did. There it is. If you've tried sugarcane then skip this bit, if you haven't then you may be interested to learn that it is not what you expect. At all. First, hack the end off your cane, then pare it down until the white pith is exposed. Then you tear into it trying not to let the raw syrup run down your chin but actually into your mouth. The pith, which you hope to be pleasantly chewy, is actually like dry straw and completely indigestible. It must be spat upon the floor with relish. You end up with sugar all over your face, scraps of pith all down your front and a pile of chewed cane on the floor. Oh yes. And a strange high if you eat enough of it. I also got a pile of scones, a chocolate cake, a mug and a beer.