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Shabby and Scabby.

A true tale of egg skullduggery

 

 

Their suits were cleaned in the washing machine a long time ago, with the plimsoles they wore without socks and a few grey vests. Shabby (well they were both shabby, but only one was scabby) was over six foot tall. He had a gaunt sagging face a different shade of grey from the thick silver hair which gave him the air of a failed academic. The first impression was of a wretched Jonathan Miller.

Scabby was by contrast short and stocky, flat footed and thick necked with a ruddy snubbed face, decorated with healing abrasions and a purple eye socket.

It was seven thirty on a fresh and bright Tuesday morning and three cartons of free range eggs had been left in the doorway of the local delicatessen. Scabby stopped parallel to the doorway, sharply turned ninety degrees left and, only just catching his balance, took two steps forward before removing the delivery note from the top carton. He held it in both hands at arms length and slowly moved his head up and down before folding the note and putting it in his breast pocket. With a look of 'these must be for me' he spread his stubby little arms and hoisted the top carton onto his shoulder before striding away up a side road.

The two men walked side by side without speaking for a few hundred yards but as I overtook them I heard Scabby say to Shabby "Fucking eggs for breakfast then".