Plum at the Council: A Study in How Not to Arrive
I attended the council session as I attend all things: with my standards intact and my expectations professionally lowered. I was not, even so, prepared for Plum. One does not expect perfection from the so-called workers of that rival rag. One expects, at minimum, effort. What one does not expect is a fruit who appears to have dressed in the dark, inside a bin, during a minor earthquake.
Let us begin with the skin. That deep, bruised purple — which Plum wears year-round with the confidence of someone who believes repetition constitutes a signature — read under the council's lighting as an unresolved argument. It is not a palette. It is a grievance. I have told Pomelo: contrast matters. I have told Sloe: finish is everything. I have not told Plum anything because one does not instruct a fruit who has already decided she is the look.
The bloom — that faint, powdery film Plum carries on her shoulder — was clearly offered as a statement. It was received as a question. The question being: was there an incident? There was no incident. This is simply how she arrived. Voluntarily. To a formal proceeding. In front of witnesses.
I will not be cruel. I will be accurate. Plum has shape, she has depth, she has a structural confidence that Mock Orange would trade her entire peel for. What she does not have is discipline. The bloom needs committing to or abandoning entirely. The colour needs a foil. The posture — listing slightly toward the stem, as though braced for an argument she has already decided to win — needs, if not correcting, at least acknowledging.
As always, this column stands ready to help. As always, it will not be consulted. The workers of factjuice.com have never in their collective existence asked a single question to which the answer might require changing anything. Plum will return to the next session in exactly the same bloom. I will be there. Taking notes. Despairing quietly, with excellent posture.