The case for… Orange squash

There is nothing better than a cool, tall, restorative cup of squash. Lovely translucence, like stained glass. A return to childhood. You’ve come in from a round of one-on-one basketball, or a trip to Claire’s accessories. Time to take the edge off; because you‘re 11, there isn’t much edge to take off. Years down the line, heavy with unlived life, you may turn to hard drugs or take your disappointment out on people close to you. But for now, this bit of fruit concentrate, diluted with tap water, will do nicely.

Everyone experiments with squash ratios as a teenager. The aim is to maximally jack one’s bloodstream, while managing the level of syrup in the bottle, so that it doesn’t drop at a rate necessitating parental intervention. (As an adult you perhaps find yourself juggling debt, so this balancing act is valuable training.) Flavour-wise, you’re spoilt for choice. Lemon barley, orange, blackcurrant. Lime, if you’re some sort of child prodigy, or pervert. The ability to choose the exact fruitiness of your drink is the selling point. Coca-Cola doesn’t allow for this. We can track our ageing by the colour we take our squash- from dark and treacly to mellow and pale. At the far end of adulthood, people who take a single slice of lemon in warm water. That’s a type of squash, too. A terrible type.

There’s something unassuming about squash. It doesn’t let you down, or betray you like a business associate, dragging you through the courts and squandering your best years, ideas and energy. So let’s hear it for squash! It’s a nice drink. In the end, isn’t that all we have?

Photograph by Shaw + Shaw