Jonathan Crosby despised how much he knew about satsumas. After five hours of meticulous research through the most monotonous message boards the internet had to offer, Jonathan had become somewhat of a sommelier, grounded only by the gentle clinking of teaspoon against china in the adjoining kitchen. 

He had travelled almost the entirety of the undulating five-kilometre stretch across the sleepy English town of Willow Mills to meet with Rodney Rinker – the self-proclaimed satsuma sovereign of the South-East. There was something about sitting opposite a man wearing a t-shirt that adorned the phrase 'orange ya glad you invited me?' that at least put your own life into perspective.

Had he been tasked with mapping out every minute detail of Mr Rinker's one-bedroom bungalow on the edge of town without so much as a peek through the welcoming frosted windows, Jonathan could have come pretty close. Not exact, but pretty close. The length and breadth of the cottage was covered with the same achingly dull beige carpet, the only character coming from the tell-tale indentations of recently-moved living room furniture. Rodney Rinker had, no doubt, rearranged that very morning. In the mind of the satsuma sovereign of the South-East, his latest achievement would surely warrant some kind of photoshoot. 

Perhaps that was why the diminutive gentleman had subtly teetered onto his tip-toes to peer around Jonathan when he had first wrapped his knuckles across the oak front door – refusing to use the fruit-shaped knocker as a mark of self-respect if nothing else. Once it became clear the camera crew and paparazzi were not merely parking around the block, Rodney had offered the local journalist a tea for one, leaving him plenty of time to peruse the property.

"Nice place you have here!" Jonathan called out across the hallway, although he needn't have bothered. Noise tends to travel in bungalows built in the 1700s. He may also needn't have bothered because he didn't exactly believe his own words. Was it a nice place? For some, maybe. For Rodney, clearly. To Jonathan, it reminded him more of the kind of place your elderly grandparent would set up shop in their final stretch.

"Thanks, that's lovely to hear," Rodney replied, and he clearly meant it. "It used to belong to my Nana."

Of course.

The fading carpet long since defeated by those who had walked it, trodden and sad. The array of overflowing, shag rugs that didn't seem to provide any continuity and invaded your toes with every step – threatening to suck you into the stodgy, spiritless swamp forevermore. The dusty porcelain plates on display behind equally dusty glass, no doubt passed down the Rinker generations but never used. Wedding china, a commemorative jubilee plate, cups and saucers too delicate to gaze at for more than a second or two, let alone drink from. The entire bungalow felt as though it could be blown away by something measured between a strong wind and a gale. Hundreds of years' worth of memories housed atop a tower of cards. 

Jonathan's eyes lingered on the portraits that embellished the west wall – which he could distinguish from the sun setting through a small, porthole-like window in the centre of the room. Yet another reminder that this was getting beyond office hours. Jonathan suspected a man like Rodney would possess the hospitality to risk such hours ticking on a while yet, too. As he puzzled over whether a particular couple in the Rinker lineage were married or related, or perhaps both, Rodney finally returned with the tea.

A tray embellished with citrus. An orange tea cosy. An apron covered in the fruit from all angles that he pretended for a moment to forget he still had on. Who even wore an apron to make tea? Either a man who wanted you to know he had a satsuma apron, or a man who didn't want to spill tea down his 'orange ya glad you invited me?' t-shirt – both equally sad and tiresome. 

Rodney had long since bridged the gap between hobby and personality. In fact, he had hopped across it gleefully and never looked back. But Jonathan had a job to do, he wasn't here to judge. Not verbally, anyhow.

"Did you want to snap a quick photo of me with the lady of the hour?" Rodney asked as he nervously set the tea tray down on the rustic, charming coffee table. It was an eager request phrased as a polite offer.

"Of course," Jonathan smiled, mustering all the enthusiasm of a journalist sitting in a bungalow discussing a satsuma. Not that Rodney noticed.

By the time Jonathan retrieved the newspaper's second-hand Canon from his well-loved black rucksack with faded burgundy patches, his host was already testing out a variety of poses next to a plinth in the corner of the room. Rodney clearly had a taste for showbusiness as he had made the conscious decision to drape a white sheet atop his prized possession, like an artist would their most famous painting. As if unveiling some sort of game-changing cancer drug, Rodney whipped the sheet away with all the finesse of a fine-tuned magician to reveal the fruit of the hour.

Such was the unremarkable nature of his visit, Jonathan had somehow overlooked the very subject of his upcoming article, the satsuma itself. The biggest satsuma ever recorded in the country, or so Jonathan was informed. He doubted the database was too extensive for such feats, but it was apparently newsworthy nonetheless. The look on Rodney's face was a mixture of pride and anticipation, bordering on a strange sense of titillation. 

It was only when Jonathan stared down the smudged lens that he realised how much creation can mimic man. Like Frankenstein and Frankenstein's monster. Or perhaps more accurately how dogs often look like their owners. With Rodney's bald head and ginger chin stubble, Jonathan couldn't help but crack a smile. A smile Rodney no doubt mistook as a look of unbridled bewilderment. We often see what we want to see. 

But what Jonathan could already see was an endless stream of comments that would be left on the website below his article. He could already see the glee on his editor's face at the levels of engagement. He could already see an email from one of Rodney's cousins, or aunts, or fellow satsuma enthusiasts, requesting that the hurtful comparisons be deleted.

Jonathan clicked a few half-hearted photos before stuffing his camera back deep into the bowels of his bag, below the helmet and waterproof he had worn on the cycle over. A clear statement to Rodney that it wasn't coming back out for love nor money.

"That's one big satsuma," he nodded, throwing the middle-aged orange look-alike a bone. Four words to summarise Rodney's life achievement, but he gobbled up every last morsel.

"Why thank you," he shuffled modestly. "Although, technically, this big girl here isn't a satsuma, she's an orange. You might want to note that for your eagle-eyed readers."

Jonathan hated when Rodney personified the satsuma – the orange. He also had no intention of changing the pre-written headline for the article itself. Sat-SUMO – That has to be more than one of your five a day! The world of online journalism was an elegant and subtle place. Fortunately, Jonathan didn't anticipate too many issues from the citrus community. After all, who really cared about the difference between an orange and a satsuma – or a clementine, or a mandarin? Why were there so many names for an orange anyway, Jonathan wondered.

If he had learned one thing from his deep dive into the orange web, it was that these folk were beyond grateful to have a light shone on their peculiar hobbies in the first place. The tallest tangerine tower. The longest clementine peel in the world. Most oranges skinned and consumed within sixty seconds. The list went on. Rather too long for Jonathan's liking. And now Rodney Rinker, the satsuma sovereign of the South-East, would be the king of them all.

"Did you want to give her a measure?" Rodney asked, gesturing towards the tape draped conveniently around the side of the plinth.

"I'll take your word for it."

"You sure? She's around a C-cup by my reckoning."

Definitely a strange sense of titillation.

That was Jonathan's cue to leave.

"Well, I think I have everything I need. I'll attach the photos to the article along with the quotes you emailed over -"

"The quotes were sufficient, yes? I have plenty more to say if you need..."

"No, no. Two pages were more than enough, Mr Rinker. Plenty of gold for us to take from there, don't you worry. Perhaps you can drop us another message if you end up growing a giant apple, maybe a banana. Give the world's largest fruit salad a go," Jonathan smiled, walking himself towards the front door with purpose.

Rodney was the kind of person with whom you had to force your exit. Jonathan had paid enough of these house visits to know that by now. A fresh-faced reporter still wet behind the ears in the world of Willow Mills could easily find themselves trapped in a bungalow such as this long into the evening hours. But not Jonathan. He had the perfect combination of experience and disinterest to smell his prime exit opportunity from a mile away.

"A fruit salad," Rodney chuckled. "Yes. Yes! Very good!"

He would no doubt re-tell that anecdote for weeks to come, but the words had already evaporated from Jonathan's tongue, escaping his brain via giddy osmosis. He was free. At least for another day.

Sat-SUMO – That has to be more than one of your five a day! – Jonathan Crosby.