Writing for Fun
May 2016
Judgement - Maureen Rampersaud
The eggs, in various guises were displayed upon twelve tables in the dinner hall. Mr. Finch frowned in dismay, there were even more than last year. He couldn't remember how he was given the dubious privilege of judging the annual 'Easter Egg Eggtravaganza'. Perhaps he had agreed to it when he was appointed Deputy Head of Greenlands Primary School. He would have agreed to anything to get out of that concrete jungle of an inner city school to work here. He sighed and started writing on his clipboard.
Jenny raced through the school gates, 'Mum! It's the egg competition on Monday, we've only got the weekend to get it ready.'
'No 'we' about it. If you want to enter, you sort it out.'
All the way home, Jenny thought hard. She had just read about Perseus and the Gorgon. She had her doll's mirror which would be perfect for Perseus to hold in one hand, pipe cleaners for arms and hands. He could have a sword, cut out from a cereal packet covered with foil, in the other hand. The Gorgon, Medusa . . . mmm. How could she make the snakes for her head. It was hard to make anything stick to a hard-boiled egg. She remembered last year's attempt at a robot antenna. She had sellotaped it on, but then couldn't paint it properly because of the tape. She would paint the egg first this year.
Jenny decided to get her homework done that night so she would have the whole weekend for her project, although she did hard-boil the eggs. The next morning, she retrieved the shoe box that she'd saved, from under her bed, covered her desk in newspaper and set to work with paint, glue, pipe cleaners and tissue paper. On Sunday afternoon, she revealed her entry to her mum. She'd put the painted, cave-like shoe box on its side with a sign at the top, 'Perseus slaying Medusa'. Hard-boiled Perseus was wielding his foil sword in the general direction of the green painted Gorgon with a woolly hat, from which pipe cleaners writhed at various angles.
'Jenny, this is your best yet. I'm proud of you!'
Lucinda sashayed through the school gates to be greeted by her mum looking agitated. 'It's all right for you to be so laid back. That egg entry won't make itself, I'm determined to win this year!'
'Okay, Mum, whatever.'
All the way home, her mum prattled on, 'It's going to be 'The Beatles', my . . . er our most ambitious yet.'
'What are 'The Beatles'?'
'You're kidding, Lucinda, they're the most famous group of all time!'
'Well I've never heard of them.'
At home, Lucinda put her feet up and watched TV. Her mum was boiling the eggs and thinking, 'It's just as well that Lucinda's off for a sleepover at Annabel's . . . gives me more time to work on my entry. Those guitars and drum kit will be tricky, still, luckily there was lots of stuff at the craft shop . . . I'd better win, it cost an arm and a leg.'
When Lucinda returned on Sunday night, Mum revealed the perfect stage with lights and four mop-headed eggs in suits with instruments.
'Here you are, Lucinda, stick 'The Beatles' caption on there, and don't mess it up. Remember, it's all your own work!'
Lucinda rolled her eyes.
Mr. Finch surveyed the Superman eggs, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Adele and . . . what was this? The Beatles, a technically brilliant entry. Obviously Lucinda's mum again. Lucinda was one of the least artistic children he had ever encountered, and her mum the most pushy. It amazed him that she expected him to believe that her nine-year old daughter could produce this on her own.
His eyes focused on a shoe box cave with streaky brushstrokes of paint and wobbly writing, 'Perseus slaying Medusa'. Medusa's woolly hat looked as if she was expecting snow, rather than decapitation. It was charming and it tugged at his heartstrings. He placed a card next to it . . . 'First Prize'.