Last Sunday I went to a sort of fair-festival in a village near here, Melton Mowbray.
I needed to go there after reading around that there would be the stroke of the blade, the shepherd dogs and some strange race on the sheep. Unfortunately
just arrived at the party were attacked by terrible stomach cramps that prevented me from seeing the races so ridiculous dream.
Me I'm due to go home, while the smells of hamburgers, pancakes and caramel I ran back to the way a threatening instant nausea transformation into something more concrete and disgusting.
The same cramps I had close eye on the night a few days before.
I thought and thought what I had ingested AA in those days, my psychological state, how I'm sitting, how I dress. I plugged in detail all the relevant events and food of the last two weeks, while I roll over in bed. Until, just when I thought I had lost all hope, an epiphany.
All the clues are embedded, the large face of Poirot smiled at me, saying, "Perhaps something you are served all the episodes that you saw this winter."
Perhaps only the British have the enzymes to digest it.
The culprit is him, the duck egg.
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