In the corrugated iron shed, the old orchardist leans on the counter, polishing a tiny apple with a swatch of toilet paper.

Packing instructions lean against the wall. A motorised pushbike is propped where the window light meets the shadow. It’s aimed sometimes at the apple trees, full pelt, to scare off the parrots.

A conventional apple weighs 160, 170 grams, he’s telling me. There’s already a smaller variety on the market. But the old grower isn’t perturbed. His is tinier still. At 44, 45 grams, it’s a quarter the size of an ordinary apple.

He imagines it plated, whole, at a fine dining restaurant. On a cheese platter, perhaps. His wife sees it as a snack apple in school lunch boxes.

The orchardist doesn’t like the term ‘miniature’ or ‘mini’. Forget ‘tiny’. Same goes for ‘dwarf’. ‘Baby’ is unacceptable. (“Nobody eats babies.”) ‘Fairy’ he particularly hates.

“No, see, they’ve all got connotations,” he says.

For him, the word has always been ‘little’.

“It’s got a certain charm to it, right? One of the little people.

“But there’s nothing wrong with being little,” he adds, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m five foot two in my boots...read more