Egg

It is Easter Day. The sun came out this afternoon, while I was out walking on a hilltop overlooking the town. To tell the truth, the town is not all that pretty at the best of times, so the sunshine helped brighten things up, intensifying the golden yellow of the daffodils and gorse. It is a difficult thing to photograph, gorse: all those tiny yellow flowers. You would think at least one of them would be in focus.

I looked through the wine cellar to pick something to complement the lamb I was cooking for dinner. (I am not sure why lambs have to bear the brunt of Easter dining: perhaps they just have an unfortunately high profile at this time of year, with all that gambolling around. If they had any sense, they would keep their heads down until it blows over.) My wine cellar comprises half a dozen disparate bottles that I have somehow accumulated over the last few years. I think they must have been gifts, or possibly won in raffles: I don't recall buying any of them. Though I don't recall being given them, either. Selecting the right one to accompany lamb was beyond me, so I reverted to picking the oldest, the one with the thickest layer of dust, on the grounds that although fine vintage wines doubtlessly improve with age, I suspected my more modest bottles would soon reach their sell by date.