There is something about olive trees that holds the attention. They look like people would if they lived for three hundred years and had bad diets. Arthritic old folk, with rickets and heavily wrinkled skin, limbs twisting in crazy directions but feisty with it. Olive trees wouldn’t go gently into the dark night, or the old people’s home come to that, they’d hang around at the head of the table dispensing sage but unwanted advice. Give them any cheek and you wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised to receive a firm clip round the ear. If you looked at an olive grove in just the right light it could uncannily resemble the audience at a Cliff Richard concert.
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