That one with the mushrooms on top. Something about being rich means that it strikes the Tavistock as a slightly classy thing to do. Our projection of how one can best emulate the wealthy follows the following flow. That chap was wearing brown slacks and blazer and bought a king size twix -> brown things are exclusive -> the most brownest place we ever woke up in was that forest ere the autumn time -> the best and mostly revered blossoming of the wood is the mushroom. The Tavistocks once joined a mushrooming hunt but were swiftly disbarred due to our preoccupation with the party leader's Kendal Mint Cake. Admittedly, we had seen the confection and decided to pursue prior to our overhearing about the mushrooming. Our offer of gratuitous service in advocacy (with only the merest stipulation of mintage)was met with the promise that she would summon her husband; such things have gone awry in the past. So when we found a box of discarded mushrooms in a bin behind Lidl (interested parties can cross reference this with the entry in Tavistocks Adventure Compendium XI in the subsection titled 'Potato-Laceration trajectory) it seemed only proper that we rustle an egg and enjoy the heady taste of decadence.
The Cheese one. The last thing the nurse did for us that glorious time the Tavistocks, en-masse, caught appendicitis was to bring an omelet into the ward which our 'bad behaviour' had necessitated our taking over. The omelets were averaging, but the sensation of all the Tavistocks being able to concurrently sleep rather than being forced to follow the restriction rota in our lodgings was almost worth the abandoning of our loose association with the Jehovahs Witnesses.
The one that was runny. Possibly our most comprehensive run of luck ever had seen us parley an apricot into a cabbage and then the cabbage into three eggs, an ersatz cheese and a Percy-pig ham slice. All we had to do was reject the first two offers made to us at the harvest festival: that day the so-called rule of three was born: always negotiate in threes. We had seen a watermark on the arch of the bridge we were happily huddling underneath which, to our trained eyes, seemed to resemble the spectacle of Holmes tucking into an omelet as Watson looked on. Therefore we know of one particular course of action which we could follow: to solve a crime, and thenceforth to have a healthy appetite for an omelet. There could only be one Holmes however, and only one omelet. A race was afoot amongst the membership of the society to identify, solve, and exact retribution for a crime pronto. There was a serious chance of vicious infighting: the society's criminal deeds have oft gone unpunished, but a swift cry of 'no tiggy butcher' from one quick witted chap terminated the danger. Unfortunately, due to a widespread absence in experience of being the plaintiff, the society failed to solve anything with 24 hours. We believe one chap got talking to a post office clerk and was 'onto something', but the silent alarm was accidentally triggered and it was he himself who was detained. We cracked the eggs into the pan, but guarding our meager gas reserves for the inevitable chills of winter, we elected to maintain the mixture's 'rawness'.