Clifford’s egg

Once upon a time there was a boy called Clifford.

(Well actually he wasn’t, he was called Stephen, but for reasons too complex to go into now he was known as Clifford)

Clifford was not the greatest student in our school, and our school wasn’t home to many great students. An amiable if bumbling fellow he tried hard but sadly rarely fulfilled the wishes of his teachers.

This particular tale concerns his adventures in domestic science. During 6 weeks of needlework Clifford failed to produce a tea cosy, and almost reduced the teacher to tears by putting the sewing machine into its case, upside down.

Next term it was cookery. Scotch eggs were to be prepared by the class. We all set about boiling our eggs, preparing the sausage meet and breadcrumb coating.

And Clifford? Clifford shone. His egg was perfectly boiled, cooked just long enough to set the yolk. His sausage meat well seasoned, his breadcrumbs browned and crisp.

At the end of each lesson the teacher would come around to inspect the work. Each carefully prepared item presented on a clean plate for marking, and if the lesson was before lunch, the odd tasting.

As Clifford set about his washing up, two girls approached him.”Clifford,” they said “Your egg looks great, can we have a little taste?”

“I suppose, just a bit” he replied.

When it came to the presentation time, we all held out our plates. Teacher moved along the row sampling and marking, ’til she came to Clifford’s.

He shyly proffered his plate, where once had sat a pristine scotch egg, now there was only the remains of the girls’ snack. A hard boiled egg rolling on a plate in a few soggy breadcrumbs.

Oh Clifford!

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