Priscilla and Cynthia (Cilla and Cinny to me) lived round the corner from us and we were always at each other's houses, or walking each other home, and then walking the other one home again, till Ma eventually yelled at me to come indoors. It was the early sixties and life in a small 'dorp' (town) was very free and easy, no problems for kids to be out in the neighbourhood, no faces of missing children on the sides of milk cartons. When we baked together, they used to fetch me (of course) and we would take all my ingredients round to their place, as they had a bigger kitchen. One day, in mid -Summer, we were going back as usual carrying our stuff, when an egg fell out of my hands, and landed on the sandy path, where it immediately started sizzling in the extreme heat. Two local boys arrived on the scene and asked us what we were doing. I immediately replied 'frying eggs, what does it look like?'. They scuttled off shaking their heads in mixed awe and disbelief. We walked on, leaving the egg where it was (almost cooked by then) giggling all the way. No wonder the cake didn't come out properly, it was missing an egg. It still tasted yummy.
