Eggs have always factored highly in most people’s Easter celebrations; some decorate their eggs and award prizes for the best, some hide them and have an Easter egg hunts while others run them along the streets in an Easter egg race.
Sleepy Hamlet, however, had its own and very unique way of celebrating with an egg. Theirs was called ‘Easter Egging’ and it went something like this:
Every year a secret committee would convene to pull two villagers names out of a hat. The ‘Egging Committee’ as it was called would then tell the two opponents that they were 'it' but what they wouldn't do was tell them who their opponent was. So both competitors had to first work out who their opposite number was and then egg them without the other knowing what was going on; but the 'egging' had to take place in full view of their opponent.
The whole village was on tender-hooks for the whole week until the game was over. Quite often people would get egged because they saw someone looking at them funny and egged them just in case...forgetting completely that they hadn't been approached by the egging committee, so it couldn't be them. But confusion was more of a state of mind than a medical condition for the villagers of Sleepy Hamlet.
A new rule had had to be brought in some five years back that no artificial aid could be used after Mrs Heppleheimer, who had been put up against Timpkins, Hamlet Hall’s head gardener, had built a trebuchet--- a medieval siege engine used for hurling boulders against castle walls--- and placed her egg in it. When it connected with poor old Timpkins, he was off work for a week and the doctors didn’t finish digging egg shells out of his nostrils until Michaelmas.
Mrs Markle, the Village Postmistress, wanted nothing to do with this tradition as she believed it smacked of paganism and as she was a Puritan, and therefore self appointed scupperer of all things fun and frollicky, she stayed away from the committee and anyone who had anything to do with it. She instead insisted on blazing a trail for the Christian festival of the resurrection and vocalised in its favour on every available opportunity.
On the day that the ‘Easter Egging’ festivities began, Mrs Markle was making a pyramid display of hens eggs in the middle of her shop when she saw Tom, incomer, entrepreneur and landlord of the Cock and Bull pub, and Mrs Heppleheimer sizing each other up like a pair of gladiators, Tom, she could see quite clearly, had an egg behind his back. She knew at that point that the village idiots (for which there were many candidates in Sleepy Hamlet) had been chosen and the games were commencing.
Seeing this as just another attack on her beloved Christian celebration she left the construction of her egg mountain and sallied forth into the street, belting out hymns for Easter and preaching sermons. She’d got as far as the last supper (but not quite as far as the cheese board and bill) when she became aware that the two warriors had moved a lot closer to her. Most religious zealots would’ve taken this as a promising sign that their message was getting through, but seeing as one was a pagan who worshipped the Norse gods and the other an outsider, Mrs Markle’s deflector shields went up. She gabled the end of her message and with as much decorum as a mad dash could muster, she high tailed it into the village store and didn’t stop until she was safely behind the shop counter.
To her surprise and horror, Tom and the Heppleheimer woman came into the shop and carried on with their Easter Egging manoeuvres. This was a step too far and Mrs Markle was having none of it. She raised herself up to her full height and let the combatants have a piece of her mind. She interjected all her vitriolic venom with messages from the good book and at one point she even brandished her industrial strength crucifix; this mainly at Mrs Heppleheimer and her dark pagan soul, eventually she shooed the unwanted guests out of her shop with arms that doubled as brooms.
Unbeknownst to her, Tom had dropped his egg right behind Mrs Markle as he left the store. So when Mrs Markle had seen them off her premises with a snort of derision, she turned to go back in, slipped cartoon like on the broken egg and landed with full force, smack into the middle of her egg display. As she squirmed and slipped her way into attempting to get upright, Tom poked his head around the door and smiled cheerily as he said ‘You’ve been Easter Egged’ and walked off, bowing and taking plaudits from the cheering villagers.
Mrs Markle blustered and flustered, but as she tried unsuccessfully for the 15th time to stand up, looking for all the world like a heavily tweeded Bambi on ice, it started to dawn upon her that she’d been duped by Tom. Mrs Heppleheimer hadn’t been the other combatant and if she had paid attention to the village notice board she’d have seen ‘Her’ name opposite Toms and not Mrs Heppleheimer’s.
Tom and the Heppleheimer woman had worked together on an elaborate ‘Easter Egging’ hoax that had left her quite literally with egg on her face.
As she sat there dejected, defeated and covered in egg, Mrs Markle looked up once again and silently begged forgiveness to god for the thoughts she was having about Tom, Mrs Heppleheimer and a collection of large fiery stakes imbedded where only proctologist’s dare to go.
Happy Easter.
Sleepy Hamlet © 2010 Karl Dixon
Sleepy Hamlet, however, had its own and very unique way of celebrating with an egg. Theirs was called ‘Easter Egging’ and it went something like this:
Every year a secret committee would convene to pull two villagers names out of a hat. The ‘Egging Committee’ as it was called would then tell the two opponents that they were 'it' but what they wouldn't do was tell them who their opponent was. So both competitors had to first work out who their opposite number was and then egg them without the other knowing what was going on; but the 'egging' had to take place in full view of their opponent.
The whole village was on tender-hooks for the whole week until the game was over. Quite often people would get egged because they saw someone looking at them funny and egged them just in case...forgetting completely that they hadn't been approached by the egging committee, so it couldn't be them. But confusion was more of a state of mind than a medical condition for the villagers of Sleepy Hamlet.
A new rule had had to be brought in some five years back that no artificial aid could be used after Mrs Heppleheimer, who had been put up against Timpkins, Hamlet Hall’s head gardener, had built a trebuchet--- a medieval siege engine used for hurling boulders against castle walls--- and placed her egg in it. When it connected with poor old Timpkins, he was off work for a week and the doctors didn’t finish digging egg shells out of his nostrils until Michaelmas.
Mrs Markle, the Village Postmistress, wanted nothing to do with this tradition as she believed it smacked of paganism and as she was a Puritan, and therefore self appointed scupperer of all things fun and frollicky, she stayed away from the committee and anyone who had anything to do with it. She instead insisted on blazing a trail for the Christian festival of the resurrection and vocalised in its favour on every available opportunity.
On the day that the ‘Easter Egging’ festivities began, Mrs Markle was making a pyramid display of hens eggs in the middle of her shop when she saw Tom, incomer, entrepreneur and landlord of the Cock and Bull pub, and Mrs Heppleheimer sizing each other up like a pair of gladiators, Tom, she could see quite clearly, had an egg behind his back. She knew at that point that the village idiots (for which there were many candidates in Sleepy Hamlet) had been chosen and the games were commencing.
Seeing this as just another attack on her beloved Christian celebration she left the construction of her egg mountain and sallied forth into the street, belting out hymns for Easter and preaching sermons. She’d got as far as the last supper (but not quite as far as the cheese board and bill) when she became aware that the two warriors had moved a lot closer to her. Most religious zealots would’ve taken this as a promising sign that their message was getting through, but seeing as one was a pagan who worshipped the Norse gods and the other an outsider, Mrs Markle’s deflector shields went up. She gabled the end of her message and with as much decorum as a mad dash could muster, she high tailed it into the village store and didn’t stop until she was safely behind the shop counter.
To her surprise and horror, Tom and the Heppleheimer woman came into the shop and carried on with their Easter Egging manoeuvres. This was a step too far and Mrs Markle was having none of it. She raised herself up to her full height and let the combatants have a piece of her mind. She interjected all her vitriolic venom with messages from the good book and at one point she even brandished her industrial strength crucifix; this mainly at Mrs Heppleheimer and her dark pagan soul, eventually she shooed the unwanted guests out of her shop with arms that doubled as brooms.
Unbeknownst to her, Tom had dropped his egg right behind Mrs Markle as he left the store. So when Mrs Markle had seen them off her premises with a snort of derision, she turned to go back in, slipped cartoon like on the broken egg and landed with full force, smack into the middle of her egg display. As she squirmed and slipped her way into attempting to get upright, Tom poked his head around the door and smiled cheerily as he said ‘You’ve been Easter Egged’ and walked off, bowing and taking plaudits from the cheering villagers.
Mrs Markle blustered and flustered, but as she tried unsuccessfully for the 15th time to stand up, looking for all the world like a heavily tweeded Bambi on ice, it started to dawn upon her that she’d been duped by Tom. Mrs Heppleheimer hadn’t been the other combatant and if she had paid attention to the village notice board she’d have seen ‘Her’ name opposite Toms and not Mrs Heppleheimer’s.
Tom and the Heppleheimer woman had worked together on an elaborate ‘Easter Egging’ hoax that had left her quite literally with egg on her face.
As she sat there dejected, defeated and covered in egg, Mrs Markle looked up once again and silently begged forgiveness to god for the thoughts she was having about Tom, Mrs Heppleheimer and a collection of large fiery stakes imbedded where only proctologist’s dare to go.
Happy Easter.
Sleepy Hamlet © 2010 Karl Dixon
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