A Good Egg

On my little strolls outside I have been finding hard-boiled eggs lying around. This puzzled me. Bert likes an egg so why would he throw them outside? Were hard-boiled eggs served at Laura’s party, and did the guests place them under hedges for some kind of amusement? Maybe the same person who put vol-au-vents in my dryer did it? There are some very strange people around. None of these explanations made any sense.

Now I admit I did not smell these eggs nor did I nibble at them but I have come up with a theory. Our friend Ian occasionally gives us food parcels. When he gets concerned about his nutritional intake he redds the cupboards of food he considers unhealthy. Once we got a big bag of pot noodles. I took them straight into work where the hungry clients fell upon them like a pack of ravening wolves. The last time he gave us a food parcel it contained a jar of pickled eggs. Pickled eggs? As if I would. But Bert would and he must have given the dogs a share. And they not being overly keen on pickled eggs must have left them past for a time of famine. So problem solved. I’ll check with Bert when he gets home.

Now if Swisser were an egg she wouldn’t be hard-boiled and she certainly wouldn’t be pickled or fried. She’d be a good egg, maybe slightly scrambled but that’s no bad thing. That’s why we love her. She may not be a Professor yet but she’s certainly nutty. Yesterday she showed me where the beavers build their structures on the River Bush. I had to tell her there were no beavers in Ireland which is much better than laughing at her behind her back. She’s got a good sense of humour. She loves dogs. She is extremely kind and a fond mother and friend. Let’s laugh with her to her face from now on.

And down with Ploppy-Pants.