A mango shade of summer

I am reminded of raw mangoes. Summers spent under granny's tutelage honing mango-picking into the rarest of fruit art. You needed to establish their credentials -- age, colour and potential -- pick them and gently coax them into canvas bags for a tryst with their destiny. The ordained weren't to hit the earth, if they did they would be guillotined at once. The good ones were always hiding in the harshest nooks and the juices stung. They had to be wooed and conquered. The brightest were set aside for ripening, the rogues were pickled and the corrupt donated. We would alight from our perch like warriors surveying the spoils in canvas baskets.