On Good Friday my mother usually makes her fantabulous hot cross buns. Unsurpassed in the history of Australia. Or something like that. Usually there are just four of us devouring the buns. This year there were unbidden guests.
Dad was serving the buns. We were making our familiar drooling, moaning noises.
Perhaps our pre-orgiastic vocalisations acted as an incantation, calling up spirits from Easters past. They marched across the tablecloth.
They surveyed our Easter breakfast. At first we were seduced by their seeming innocence. Their yellow fuzz illuminated our breakfast table.
We noticed small groups forming amongst our visitors. “How sweet!” we thought. “It’s a group hug.” … or was it something more like a rugby scrum?
While we had been observing our cute little friends do their group hug, other visitors were busy… The hugs had been a diversion!
The yellow guests were as voracious as locusts. And when challenged, defended their bounty. They had the arrogance of conquerors, standing atop the battlements of a fallen fortress.
We cowered in our seats as the fluffy yellow marauders started mutating into hideous, daemonic things.
To our surprise, the frightening feasting horned chickens of Easter began to collapse. The mutation had not been a transformation into their true form, but in fact the hideous effect of a food allergy.
They couldn’t take the peel. We were saved! Beware of peel-hating Easter invaders!