Long live punctuality

He had to try again, and so he did: Polly hurried towards Cropelli, carrying a basket of perfect eggs, shiny as pearls and full of promise. But you know, the turkeys at 8 a.m. fill the streets and there’s no moving on. When she finally crossed the threshold of the Cropelli, her winged heart was racing, but hopeful, but the ticking clock already signalled her mistake. Polly was invited back, but on time. At Cropelli punctuality was as sacred as precision.