#2 The Most Excellent Diary of Sidney Ornithorn Thorpe - Genius

January 2nd

Woke up feeling unaccountably hungry. I decided to make peace with mother. As a gesture of forgiveness I resolved to eat one or perhaps two of her poached eggs. I dressed and, taking care to avoid The Cat's various liquids, went to the dining room, sat down and called out 'Egg please!' in my most conciliatory and forgiving tone.

Mother failed to answer.

I waited patiently for a few seconds then called again for an egg.
Again I was ignored.

This is typical of mother. Of the many tricks at her disposal, ignoring me is perhaps her favourite. Indeed these sorts of petty conflicts can continue indefinitely until I take matters firmly in hand. Luckily I am not easily discouraged.

Naturally I continued to call for an egg at regular intervals and naturally Mother continued to ignore me. I grew irritated. After perhaps five minutes I resolved that an escalation of hostilities was required. I formulated a plan.

Whilst continuing to call out, I incrementally raised the volume of my voice with each successive cry. This felt very empowering and before long I was happily bellowing for my morning egg at the full limit of my vocal projection.

I was just beginning to really enjoy myself when the neighbour became involved via a loud knocking on our connecting wall. Appreciating his concern I replied with a series of thumps, slow at first to show that I had understood, and then a longer, louder sequence to show that I was taking appropriate action. To this the neighbour replied with a very forceful pummelling. I took this to mean something akin to 'message understood, thank you.'

Now encouraged through the wall by the neighbour's shouts and thumps, I continued to bellow for an egg. For a very long time nothing happened. Slowly my mind began to wander and other ways I might obtain an egg began to flash briefly through my mind. I became distracted by thoughts of easier alternatives: breakfast cereal with milk or a piece of hot buttered toast. I began to tire. My voice grew hoarse and, it shames me to admit, I felt my resolve beginning to weaken.

Gradually Mother's plan became clear to me. She was attempting to grind me down. She can be merciless in conflict and my being her only child would afford me little clemency. We were locked in a battle of wills. So be it. I began to think tactically.

In battle the most unexpected course of action is often the most advantageous. Often it takes a great general: a Napoleon to perceive this. In a flash my next manoeuvre came to me. I must counter attack with a further escalation; namely maintaining the volume of my shouts whilst increasing their frequency. This I duly did.

Matters progressed. I began to perspire. My voice took on a harsher tone and my ever more rapid shouts of 'Egg Please!' began to to sound like a primitive war cry. Still I fought bravely on, barking out my demand with all my reserves of strength and will.

Minutes passed. I began to feel faint. Time slowed and I became fixated by the motion of the clock.

Still mother refused to appear. My vision began to blur around the edges.

Still mother refused to appear. Feeling close to surrender I rose and stumbled to the window, just in time to see mother emerge from the shed, wielding a bucket and a garden fork. She gave a mocking wave and began to dig. Clearly she sensed victory.

Feeling the jaws of defeat beginning to close around my throat I made a last desperate stand. Grabbing the silver George III sugar bowl with filigree detailing from the dresser, I hurled it through the kitchen window. There was a beautifully loud crash and I stumbled backwards onto the floor.

This proved an inspired piece of improvisation. Hearing the crash brought Mother waddling back to the house in her Wellingtons. Upon seeing the broken glass she attempted a parlay. I ignored her and focused on recovering my breath. She then attempted to feign ignorance of the conflict and asked me 'Why?' a number of times. I gave her a taste of her own medicine and smiled broadly without answering. And when she asked whether I had anything to say for myself I nodded and, in a slow and measured tone, uttered the triumphant words 'Egg please.'

At this she became quite wild. Her rusty bucket clanged to the floor and a freshly dug spud flew past my ear. Rather than gloat and risk the sharp end of a garden spade I chose magnanimity and retired to my room. This seemed prudent as the now draughty kitchen had become rather cold and I had quite lost my appetite.

By lunchtime it became apparent that no more poached eggs would be forthcoming from the kitchen for a considerable time. I settled for a moral victory and boiled one for myself. I served it on my favourite plate and allowed myself to eat only the yolk.

Spent the rest of the day writing poetry in my room.

to be continued...