Harry spent the morning hiding eggs for Lady Smock’s copious great nieces and nephews, wondering about the mythology of a rabbit dropping eggs willy-nilly, cuckoo-like, for people to find. Was the bunny really god pointing out it doesn’t matter whose eggs you’ve got, be happy you’ve got an egg at all? As far as Harry could tell, the bunny was no oologist, and life was random as hell.
Thus brooding, he tripped on the way into the kitchen, dropping their fresh breakfast eggs – yolks and albumin splattered everywhere.
Lady scooped up the mess. “Look, Harry, it’s us – an accidental mess.”