Easter means many things to different people. As a kid it meant easter eggs and stuffed toy bunnies that my sister and I would spend a good week prior searching for. It is probably time I told my Mum about the time that Trina and I found the eggs and toy bunnies in the boot of her car on Easter Saturday. Good hiding place. That was the first time we looked there and last time I remember searching - maybe finding them ruined the surprise of Easter for me.
This year, Giles and I tried to get in to the spirit of things. In our JIT-shopping style, we went to the David Jones store in Pitt Street on Easter Saturday and crawled the raided shelves for one of the last few egg sets left. After picking up an attractive hat box packed tastefully with gold eggs (obviously from the golden goose), I almost let it go again. There were two desperate housewives hovering by waiting for me to relinquish my ownership but I was too quick and noticed. The box was back down on the counter but with my hand resting on it while I decided what my next move would be. A quick scan of the shop made the decision easy. There was nothing left. The hordes had been, bought and pillaged and gone. These were my eggs. They would have to settle for the reusable baby blue foam handbag with the ugly striped kiddie eggs.