I’ve recently been reading anecdotes about how people were taught to do their insulin injections, and it appears that a popular method in former years was to get the patient, or patient’s carer, to practice by injecting into an orange. Thankfully, it appears that this barbaric practise has all but disappeared from civilised society, and oranges assigned to hospitals no longer need fear this painful, protracted and humiliating fate at the hands of diabetic neophytes.
Recently, during a clear out of old fruit bowl cupboards at a disused hospital, a remarkable document has come to light, which gives a fascinating insight into the lonely life of a terrified orange destined for the diabetic ward. Most oranges would hope to live out their ripening days adorning colourful baskets alongside fruits of all varieties and nations, valued and admired by staff and patients alike. For those unfortunates selected for injection training however, the outlook was grim, and a dusty, juice-stained piece of old peel found in a dark corner was found to contain this poignant supplication to a higher power…
Oh Orange Father, hear my prayer,
And save me from my fate,
Deliver me from this frightening place,
Before it is too late!
For I have heard an awful word,
The humans call ‘inject’,
And terror grips my shaking pips,
If they should me select!
Oh Orange Spirit, show you care!
Don’t let them pierce me so!
For such a death I cannot bear,
(I’m sensitive, you know!)
They’re coming, Spirit, for me now,
So this must be goodbye,
Perhaps I’ll join you very soon,
In the Juicer in the Sky!