Glove

'See,' said Bricks, giving Timott a wink with his middlest eye, 'that wen' 'eaps better.'
'Mmm...' said Timott. 'Ya could be right.'
Timott spotted someone else in the que who looked bored. A grey-haired lady in a faded, purple cardigan. Probably a lecturer, he thought. Or a mature-age student.

'Hi,' said Timott, walking up to Lois.
'Hullo, dearie,' she said.
Student, thought Timott. Lecturer wouldn't say 'dearie'.
'I was wondering if I could swap this for something better,' he said, holding out the egg.
'Oooh. Maybe. I don't know.'
'Well, do you have anything you wouldn't mind swapping for an egg?'
'Wait a moment, duck; I'll see.'
Lois began to rummage though her handbag.
'What about this, pet?' she said, pulling out a single, red, knitted glove. 'I knitted it for my 'usband, Frank. But 'e died*.'
'Oh, that's awful,' said Timott, wondering why she carried a glove she'd made for her deceased husband around in her handbag.
'Will it do?' asked Lois, looking hopeful.
'Well,' said Timott. 'I suppose so.'
'Oh good.'
Lois gave Timott the glove, and he gave her the egg.
'I'd like to see you put it on,' said Lois. 'Please?'
'Ah, alright,' said Timott.
He put it on.
'Perfect fit!' said Timott, wriggling his fingers.
'Oh how nice! Take care, won't you?'
'Yeah, you too. Thanks!'
Later that day, Lois won bingo. She was quite pleased.

*Lois and Frank had taken a day trip to Daylesford. While looking at the beautiful, rolling hills, one had rolled up behind Frank and squashed him flat.