You don’t often get service like this any more.
Recently, I had both kids home from school with sore throats, pathetically requesting that I make them scrambled eggs on toast.
With barely a crumb in the house, I set off to the Little River petrol station to fill the pantry.
Gathering bread, milk and a sneaky bit of chocolate for later, I asked for a dozen eggs, usually super fresh after being delivered by a local man who has a harem of hens.
However, I’d missed the delivery and no eggs were available.
‘‘That’s a shame,’’ said I, ‘‘the sick kids will have to have honey and jam instead.’’
‘‘Wait a moment,’’ said Karen the shopkeeper, ‘‘we can’t have the sick kids going without their eggs. Come with me, I know where we can get some.’’
Into my car she jumped and we drove down the road to her house, where she disappeared into the backyard.
A few moments later I heard the squawking of chooks and saw Karen legging it back to the car, triumphantly clutching a handful of eggs.
As she filled the egg box and handed it over, a lone chook strutted indignantly along the back fence, telling us off for interrupting her productivity, her language not understood but her tone and meaning clear enough.
As the hen continued in her indignation, I dropped Karen back at her post and headed home to the waiting frying pan and expectant children.
My son cracked the fresh eggs, yolks glowing buttercup yellow, while I toasted soft bread and spread it with salty butter.
As we ate, we reflected on the simple pleasures of living in this little country town, so close to the city, where goodwill and good service still mean something.
Emma Sutcliffe is a local freelance writer who writes at littleriveremma.com
