Brighton Lights: The Hunt Is On

Richard Shayler is enjoying a little springtime nostalgia …

I draw the curtain and peek out. I sheepishly open my window. Just a crack. I inhale deeply. A mixture of grass, rabbits and picnics hits my nostrils. I then open my eyes fully and look into the distance. Blue skies. Sun. Children playing. Hoses. Sprinklers. Bees. Oh no, trick of the light. Actually, there’s one! No – it was a wasp. Beethoven’s 6th blasts out from every tree, bird and flower. Well, this is a turn out for the books! Spring has begun! Spring, the season of birth, rebirth and Easter eggs. Days get longer, weather gets better and bicycles get pumped up. The warmer days and regular rainfall allows plants and grass to flourish. Lush, young grass that all the sheep, lambs, cows, calves and rabbits feast on. I sometimes look at all the animals dining on these sweet, sugary reeds of deep green and have half a mind to get down on all fours and join them. In fact, if my stomach could handle it I probably would. I’m sure Bear Grylls and Ray Mears do it, so why can’t I?

I was having a conversation with some friends recently and we were discussing things we did in our childhoods that we secretly all still wanted to do. The usuals came up; surplus amounts of fizzy pop, Quasar, bouncy castles, superhero themed parties. One friend still wished he wore a nappy. That was a lead balloon.
However, the one idea that soared above the rest, a hot air balloon of consensus, catapulting every other idea into nothingness … was the desire to still go on Easter egg hunts.
The excitement. The adrenaline. The rush! Every boy, girl, parent and grandparent trying to grab as many eggs as they possibly can. Running deranged around your best mate’s massive garden, eggs overflowing out of your mouth, pocket, down your pants, everywhere! You probably lost more eggs in your manic rush to get more than everyone else than you started with.

The real winners were the parents, clearing up through the centre of the carnage. Gathering all the forgotten eggs throughout the middle of the hunt. And even after all was said and done. Every stone turned, every flowerpot flipped, every bush raided, every pet dissected and searched. Even after the entire garden had been stripped bare, you’re still out there, searching and searching, believing that there must be one last egg that everyone else has missed.
And then you retire to the lounge, comparing your catch with your mates. Boasting about the different coloured foil. Who’s got the caramel one? Who’s got the praline? Trying to swap the dark chocolate ones. Playing with all the toys you might have won. And then the fatigue kicks in. You try to keep your eyes open, try with all your might to seal that deal with little Johnny – two white chocolate … for his … toy … car … zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

And you’re out. After a valiant day, heroes are made, allegiances formed, legends begun. The Easter egg hunt is more than just a childish past-time. It’s a time to show what you are made of to your fellow man. A time to shine. A time to gorge on your spoils. A time to stand up and be counted. And as you drift effortlessly into your deep sleep you hear Beethoven’s 6th oozing surreptitiously out from somewhere in the garden …