Fabergé Egg

Ooops. After my conviction for the hair dryer job, was trying to keep a low profile. Duck a bit, dive a bit, be a little bit who-aooo. It all went terribly wrong tonight and I was back on the naughty step.

Many moons ago, Dad had seen something about a Fabergé egg (coo, look at me with my e-acute! No sweat - just hold down the Alt key and while you're still holding it, type 130, then let it all go) being given to some highbrow lady as a gift. Next time he was in the farm shop he bought a huge goose egg, "blew" it (as in a hole in either end and blow on one end to force the white and yolk out the other. Use for delicious omelettes) and decorated it with multi coloured felt pens. He then presented it to Mum with much ceremony (I'm told the reply was "You ******* eejit!").

Since then it has been rattled around in the stationery basket, along with the highlighters and staplers, but has survived many years, and has (um.... "had") become known as the Fabergé egg. A family heirloom. Part of the family jewels, yet. Priceless. A thing of beauty and a joy for ever...

Till tonight

It wasn't my fault - Mississippi the cat tossed it down to me. What was I to do. I am a toothing puppy. I chew. It's what I do. It's amazing how many acres of hall carpet you can cover with one goose egg shell !

I am forgiven now though, and am chewing on a more appropriate ox-tail bone out of tonight's stew

Grind grind... slurp slurp, gnaw gnaw

Had any pancakes yet, Old-Dad? :-))

Deefer