Peter Noble

THE EGG AND OY 

 

 An ardent student of St Icarus’ Elementary School of Hard Knocks, he became the dux of Class ’19 and graduated with flying colours in every subject on the curriculum, save for Geography, which everybody flunked, since their geodesy teacher found himself lost en route to the exams that  morning. Thus formidably qualified, he burned the midnight oil perusing newspaper columns in search of a career which best echoed the calling of his callow heart.

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    Vacancies in his imminent field of endeavour proved to be somewhat limited, his being a rabbit and, like many anthropomorphic souls who are bereft of legitimate proof of their existence, employment was scarce.

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    There was, however, one advertisement that caught the eye. Caring no mote for the meagre financial repatriation tendered, the position bode well in terms of his churning desire to contribute to the welfare of a disadvantaged humankind, and it was to this worthy end he decided that he would be henceforth dedicated. Thus courageously empowered, he ventured forth into the world, equipped solely with his conscience as a divining rod.

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    Upon the advent of Easter, he set about attending to the preparations which would be essential to a successful resolve, none the least of which being the piece de résistance – a delivery of eggs that he had ordered, and with extra supplies forthcoming so as to ensure that his basket remained consistently filled to the brim throughout the extensive gig.

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    Since a blameless life never guaranteed a flawless one, it is never long before Time, that puckish old killjoy, puts the kybosh on even the best laid plans of might and main.

 

    On account of his being an adopted third-cousin-twice-removed from Winnie the Pooh, he inherited a smackerel of curiosity, and consequently he succumbed to the urge that now distracted him from his homework. Lost in thought, he found himself contemplating questions that hitherto never clouded his mind.

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    Who came first, the rabbit or the egg? Is he, himself, obliged to furnish clues for the egg hunts? Do Cadbury’s make sugarless eggs for diabetics? Are Freddo Frogs made of actual escargot? And should one run out of eggs, gods forbid, would the basket refill itself like the loaves and fishes?

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    Having successfully given himself an intellectual headache, he responded to the persistent chiming of the doorbell.

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    Ms Goose, a gregarious and indefatigable workaholic, deposited her impress-ive consignment of home-laid produce on the table, and he complimented her on how she was able to lay eggs already bearing vibrant motifs, and by sheer willpower no less. She gave full credit to her eccentric genes, and then asked whether she might tarry a moment until she caught her breath and mustered her wherewithal. Over soothing hot tea and toast with mulberry jam, he mentioned his reflection upon those questions which befuddled him, and asked her if she would kindly enlighten him, however she confessed to be momentarily devoid of any serviceable explanation. Refreshed, and having gathered her trusty wherewithal, Ms G bid gracious adieu and hastened homeward, gleefully mulling aloud over the new and exciting concepts she just knew she had in her.

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    Vivid images of egg hunts now haunted his thoughts. It seemed that these things appeared to be wildly competitive rituals, and likely imprudent, consid-ering the volume of sugar and preservatives and iffy use-by dates of commercial eggs, but then Ms G’s were all fresh, nutritious ingredients. Since there was no mention made in the job description regarding wardrobe, it was only reasonable to assume that he was expected to provide his own. Thus artistically inspired, he hoped to find a solution in the contents of his wicker skip.

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    His old school uniform bespoke respectability, although the crest, depicting their Alma Mata being razed to the ground by a crazed mob of feral students, could possibly be misinterpreted; his graduation gown and mortarboard with holes to accommodate his Dumbo-sized lugs would merely be encouraging legions of holidaymakers demanding selfies to be taken with him; the costume he had rented and neglected to return to ‘Frederick’s of Bollywood’ was missing the bottom half and therefore rendering it a little too quixotic, therefore he allotted his corporeal appearance to the wants of children’s imaginings, and to artist’s impressions of what is expected in popular folklore.

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    What followed then did so in a crazy quilt of trial and error events, the results of which chanced to be as improbable as they were surmounted.

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    Sunday morning dawned punctually optimistic, and while all and sundry were enjoying their egg hunts and enthusiastically tallying the cavities, their benefactor, wholly exhausted from fluking his loaves-and-fishes slight-of-hand, was unsure that he could rise to the occasion of next year’s backbreaking challenge.

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    What, he thought, would Walt Disney do under the circumstances? In fact, where was Uncle Walt when he was so sorely needed for counsel in such desperate times as these? Still secreted in some cryogenic retirement home avoiding the upshots of his misleading flights of fantasia? But just as he was about to throw in the towel, Ms G arrived in a state of most frightful angst, grieving the unexpected loss of her wherewithal, and exclaiming that she would never again be able to produce any of her distinctive eggs.

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    Wit’s end seldom fails to beget a smackerel of divine inspiration, thus Time, that contradictory old chameleon, found them running a chic little boutique in salubrious downtown Thornbury, whereat they specialize in life-size inscribed-to-order Gold Logies that sell like hotcakes to every last card-carrying also-ran desperado throughout the entire Australian television industry.

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    There may be those who wonder what heights our dauntless crusaders could even remotely aspire to next. Well, Dear Reader, what followed then did so in events as unparalleled in folkloric annals as they are indisputable.

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