Egg hunt

Just returned from sorting out the debacle that was this years village easter egg hunt. Luckily, being a magistrate one was able to bring ones influence to bear and have the whole sorry saga swept under the carpet before the tabloids got wind of it.

Of course, in these politically sensitive times the village W.I should have thought long and hard before using the word 'Hunt' in the title as before we knew it the place was crawling with long haired layabouts tootling horns and trying to fling themselves in front of the horses. One would have thought some sense might have prevailed when they realised there were no horses to fling themselves in front of, although one did launch themselves at the vicars bicycle and another did minor damage to the milkmans float.

Undeterred by this setback they then started running around the place waving aniseed soaked rags to confuse the hounds. Again, doomed to failure despite attracting the attention of a few mangy curs from the travellers camp at the end of the village. Several of the saboteurs were spotted haring across the lower meadow with a pack of starving wolfhounds in hot pursuit. One supposes that might be considered a form of justice.

In the midst of all this, the ladies of the W.I were bravely attempting to muster the village Scouts and Guides and a minor celebrity from some awful television soap opera to set off on to find where the eggs were hidden. Shame that the mem', woken from her sherry induced fug by the baying of hounds and the panicked screams of protestors trying to leap the fence encircling the meadow, decided to see the trespassers off with a few well placed rounds of buckshot. Now the mem' isn't the steadiest of us at the best of times but after an evening on the sherry with great aunt Cecilia her aim is rather worse.

Naturally it was not her intention to hit the soap opera chappie but the image of his bare arse over a table in the local inn whilst the doctor picked the lead pellets out will haunt one for many years to come and one certainly saw some gruesome sights during ones years on the frontiers of empire. Luckily further damage was averted when Clackthorpe managed to knock the mem' cold with a sand filled sock after a furtive creep through the arboretum reminiscent of his days with the commandos albeit slightly less deadly. Must give the chap a raise.

Fortunately the village bobby was most understanding despite a stray shot or two putting a few holes in his nice shiny new patrol car and as mentioned before, one, in ones capacity as magistrate was able to sort things out without charges needing to be brought. However, next Easter, one will be locking the mem' in the cellar and suggesting that the W.I leave eggs well alone.