100WC Week 5 - Rancid Eggs

Beads of sweat began to roll down his temples. He tapped the microphone, then jumped as it squealed into life. They studied his hands moving over the bowls and pans until, with a puffed-out, cock-robin chest he held the ladle high and let the thick, yellow custard tumble into the pan. It slopped, splashing up his once-pristine, embroidered whites. He reached for a cloth, his free hand rising to his mouth to hide his embarrassment. His tongue darted out, the custard tasted like rancid eggs.

“Voila!” He said, brightly. Applause erupted in a rattle of bracelets and watches. The WI would eat him alive.