Happy Easter

My ginger friend and I went to SLAP, ie Saint Leonards Adventurous Playground.

SLAP is very small and currently protected and maintained by local charities. Capped with pollution and noise, the tiny urban oasis is located right next to the A12 mega motorway. One of the few remaining 5th Century Norman Priories, this portion survived WW2 bombings and is also an ancient Huguenot graveyard.

I always feel a bit high when I go to SLAP. Potential causes include: the fact that Benedictine Nuns grew pineapples there; the smell of weed wafting around the shadows of Asian youths; the current community initiative to grow fruit, herbs and other edible plants there; and the general effects of being both outdoors and mobile.

Alone in SLAP, we were fully immersed in its wildlife. In three separate directions, we explored, Alex, Lucky and I, off the wood-chipped paths and into shadowy enclaves ensnared with branches and wet leaves.

I became tangled in the branches and brambles, looking for abandoned bags of drugs, and spotted on the ground, in a bed of wet brown leaves, and seemingly unprotected, a single small and speckled blue egg.

"Alex! I've found an egg!" I scrambled from the bushes, pointing, "But it looks like a Mini Egg!"

"Chocolate Mini Eggs are designed to look like real eggs," Alex shouted back.

Excitedly, unable to contain myself, I threw myself into the bushes and retrieved in three fingers, the speckled blue egg.

Upon examination, it did look like a real egg, I hoped. It was small in my fingers. Blue and speckled! Brown specks with a dark red tinge on one side. Hmm.

Possibilities raced through my mind: we could make a nest in the seed sprouter; line the bottom with hay and cotton wool; shine a heat lamp on it; and I could sleep next to it; it could go under Alex's desk; and it would hatch; and we would research on the internet how to sustain it; ultimately return it to its natural habitat; or perhaps contact the local ornithology centre…

Alex looked at the egg and confirmed that indeed, it was a real egg.

I was hyper and scared and we argued over who should carry the egg. Alex mostly insisted that I put it back. "The mother will come back and sort it out."

"Nah, a fox will eat it."

"Steph, allow it. Just allow it."

Intoxicated, I carried the egg some distance.

We examined the egg, shook it once, walked up and down the wood-chipped path, arguing over who would carry it.

I choked and thoughtlessly, like a fiend, dropped the egg into Alex's pocket.

"Let's go."

We'd walked about two meters before I heard Alex yelping, "Oh no. Ohhh noooo. The egg is cracked. It's cracked all in my pockets, man. Ah, fuck you. It's so gross. Fuck you, Steph."

Hopeful and disbelieving, I walked over and watched a small wet stain appear. "No."

Alex gently ruffled his pocket to reveal bits of cracked blue eggshell clinging to his keys. "Ohhhh, soo gross. Fuck you."
Me, shrieking in the background, "Nooooooooo."

Cracked egg oozed from Alex's pocket. We were dismayed.

"OK, definitely not a Mini Egg."

"A blue egg. That's... pretty special, man."

Arguments ensued. We debated charges of murder and implication in those charges. Alex's main argument being that he'd told me to put it back. But it had, in fact, broken in HIS pocket.

While Alex sulked, I screamed that he should look after Lucky, and actually returned to the spot of original sighting; this time with a long stick, half-determined to find another egg. (I have a streak in me that aims to rewind disaster via immediate replication of the pre-disaster scenario. This technique has a very low success rate.)

Fortunately, I did not find another egg and we grudgingly left SLAP, in a state somewhat more disheveled than when we'd arrived that day.

"Finally," thought the large man who'd been waiting across the road with two dogs on chain leads.

"Finally," thought the two dogs, licking their chops at the sight of Lucky.

Overwhelmed with guilt and grief, we barrelled back to Warren Estate.
"We are murderers."
"YOU are a murderer."

I vowed to make it right; to volunteer at the local ornithology centre; or even to volunteer at SLAP; to give something back; maybe I'll stop eating eggs.

I felt that I'd done something wrong; that I'd cheated nature. I raced home and researched "small blue speckled egg" online. The results led me to photos of the most beautiful exotic bluebirds I'd ever seen on the screen.

After much grumbling, we fell silent.

I brewed substantial cups of tea from SLAP-plucked wild mint.

Following a prolonged period of silence and tea-drinking, I rang Uncle Jules and gushed my tale of murder.

Uncle Jules said that guilt is a self-indulgent emotion; that accidents happen; that my intentions were good (--it's a matter of intent); that I should learn from it; and possibly create a piece of art in memoriam, sell it and donate the proceeds to the birds.

I still feel guilty and grieving. Because of a cracked egg.

I'd spotted and snatched the egg, thus altering the course of its existence. I felt that this mattered. The chance that I'd negatively affected the natural world inspired me to do something positive.

How could that be bad?