A Boiled Egg

 I’m only going to share one story about the Flower Show

Ive done it to death over the last week.

But this story is about the power of feeling a part of something.

Of joining in.

Of community.

Eirlys is a friend of mine. She’s like me, not built for fashion or elegance and is at her happiest mucking our her hens in a tired old jumper.

She is the first to say this, before you reach for your keyboards.

Anyhow, it’s been a very tough year for Eirlys. Her husband died in the winter and like many, rural widows, she’s been a bit isolated and all rather flat.

Yesterday she came and chaperoned the arts and crafts judge to help me out.

She also entered the boiled egg class in the cookery section, an event slightly fraught with difficulties as she arrived a whole 24 hours too early clutching said boiled egg on a plastic plate. 

After realising her mistake , she spent yesterday early morning boiling scores of eggs before turning up at the right time but in a rainstorm, laughing but stressed

“I ve dropped me egg in the street” she shouted at everyone when she walked into the hall but with a bit of cajoling peeled it before arranging it on a plate alongside the nine other entries.

She left just before the cookery judges assessed the eggs, with all the forensic detail of a coroner, she was happy that she had played her part.

After the show, I dropped off to her farmhouse with the egg. She had entered a vase of flowers too which I returned too; flowers she had picked from alongside the hard shoulder of London Road. And before she could draw breath I showed her First Prize certificate for Best Egg!

She laughed hard and long and almost seemed suddenly overwhelmed by the happiness and fun of the whole day. 

It was never about the egg,

How could it have been?

It was all about sharing, and company, companionship 

And being a part of something, ever slightly bigger than yourself and your own worries