EGGSACTAMUNDO

I’m going to keep things short today, after all, over Easter who has that much free time anyway? Here I am with about as many spare minutes as it takes to boil an egg to try to put a few of my scrambled thoughts together in the hope that no-one will get the idea that omelette-ing you down. Whether this will manage to keep things up on my sunny side or turn out to be more hard-boiled, depends upon a lot of things, not least how pickled I am, but, as usual I suspect that things will just end up most likely completely cracked and just a little bit off as usual.

How this all turns out will depend to a certain eggstent on whether or not I’ve managed to cook up any thoughts for you, or at the very least, poached one from someone else, because my mind is a bit coddled this morning from a lack of sleep and my ability to think is feeling pretty fried, if the truth be known.

I have a tendency towards instant tradition, in the sense that if I do something once and it goes down relatively well, I tend to think that people will be disappointed if the next time that particular day comes around, I don’t do precisely the same thing again, and suddenly you’ve got a ritual, a habit, a tradition and ultimately something else you’ve got to remember to do and organise beforehand. Now, I do tend to think that it is these small personal instant traditions that go a long way towards making each of our own little lives just a tiny bit more special and unique for each of us, although that is probably only in the sense of not being unique or special at all, I imagine, after all everyone else probably has their own variation that they are slavishly and uniquely pursuing as well.

So it is with the annual Easter egg hunt here at the nerve centre of Lesser Blogfordshire. This is a less than eggstensive annual festivity that lasts for about two minutes on Easter Sunday morning and one which would be a massive disappointment to those of you eggstreme egg hunters racing hundreds of children around your vast estate-like gardens which have been cleverly laced with thousands of hidden treats many of which are being tracked by GPS satellite tracking devices to ensure that they are all found, some of which will no doubt turn out to be inside the belly of a dog.

The event is less lavish hereabouts and is limited to a six-pack of crème eggs being ‘hidden’ in plain sight (it’s more ‘fun’ that way...) amongst the chaos of our living room, usually in eggsactly the same places as I put them last year. I first did this the very first time my beloved was here on Easter Sunday and, in the classic manner of these instant traditions, now feel that it would be a shame not to do it each and every year, although it was rather touch-and-go for a while this time around when my access to shopping emporia was recently heavily restricted by circumstance.

Nevertheless, the required purchase was made and the sticky sweet contrabrand was duly sneaked into the house under my usual self-delusion that she knows nothing of these events unfolding about her. Come the appointed hour, I will sneak downstairs and distribute them to their tired old hiding places, waiting for them to be rediscovered in the time-honoured tradition, and much hilarity of the “cold… cold… you’re getting warmer…” variety will ensue and I shall then hold the Easter Bunny entirely responsible for any resulting ballooning of any of our waistlines. After all, over indulgence is (and you knew that we had to go there, didn’t you…?) no yolk.