Eggs is Eggs, surely?

Yesterday, while the Lord was yet entombed in His three-day prison, my new-found Turkish friend was asking me what Easter Eggs were all about. So I explained all the lovely Christian Symbolism that must seem anathema to someone from a Muslim country, but it still didn’t wash. ‘But Chocolate Eggs?’ she questioned: ‘Why do you have eggs of chocolate?’ And that I couldn’t answer; it must seem a little like re-inventing the wheel. Why not eggs made out of, well – egg!

This picture is equally perplexing, since I know nothing of the news story, and can’t be bothered to search. All I can say is, whatever that shifty bloke has got in his rucksack, they’d better not be confectionary, ornithological, or anything to do with the alignment of the planets, and all its connotations – taken up (or stolen) by those Christians.

A Crème Egg (Caramel or
Twisted) to anyone who can locate this phone-box.

Happy Birthday to Moo!

Today was the birthday of a particularly special friend of mine, whose love of cows not only helped me to blag our way into the launch party of the Edinburgh Cow Parade, but also inspired me to write this poem (about her, perhaps, or another friend, both of whose names are disguised by epithets in the dedication.)

Triolet for a Cowgirl

For ‘Cassie’ and ‘Ethel’

The day the painted cows paraded through

you wore your hair up in a pony-tail.

This isn’t how I pictured you

the day the painted cows paraded through

beside our chosen bovine Vettriamoo¹.

I swore, for sure, you wore your hair in pig-tails.

But no: the day the cows paraded through

you wore your hair up in a pony-tail?

Note:

¹ For fun, the final syllable of ‘Vettriamoo’ should be given the fullest stress. This cow, based on Vettriano's painting, ‘The Singing Butler,’ stood outside St John's Church, on the corner of Princes Street and Lothian Road during the Edinburgh Cow Parade of 2006. (My picture was taken at the Launch Party - note the glass of wine by her left foot!)  The artist who designed and painted it wanted to name her cow ‘Vettriamoo’ but her sponsors wouldn’t let her.  My poem pays homage to the artist, Ginie Naisby, and so many happy (but fading) memories.