Today is Silly Sunday, so…
The Plight of the Pickled Egg.
Once upon a rotting bar sat a murky looking jar. Bobbing about inside discoloured vinegar half-filling the jar was a bored pickled egg.
The pickled egg believed there must be more to life, but had no hands, never mind opposable thumbs, to open the jar’s lid to escape.
It spent its days staring out of the dirty glass prison it found itself with emptiness in its little yellow soul.
Lifeforms strolled in and wobbled out. Rubber sandwiches and baskets of soggy chips passed from hand to mouth. And it witnessed bar fights and inept floppy flirting.
Though, it all seemed to happen around the pickled egg and not to the pickled egg. Which was a bit of bitch if you asked said pickled egg.
Until one day, Urv, the village drunk, gave the landlord a silver farthing to fish the pickled egg out of the jar.
The pickled egg squeaked and squealed with excitement as nicotine and filth stained fingers squeezed into the jar and fumbled for its smooth body.
For a full minute after retrieval, the swaying man stared with dancing eyes at the egg and the pickled egg looked around at its surroundings, with a sigh.
The crumpled and drenched napkin it sat on felt like a feather mattress would to a man who found his nights in shop doorways as a rule.
‘I’m free!’ The egg said, before being stuffed into the battered and stinky mouth of Urv.
There’s a moral to this story, but it involves a lot of LSD and a copy of Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas.