Eggs

My egg broke.

And when I say broke, I mean all the way broke. The cracking left a jagged edge of shell, and as I poured the egg into the frying pan that edge slashed the yolk open like that scene from Titanic.

I peer into the pan, knowing full well that every scrap of yolky goodness has leaked away into the white. There’s not a drop left to mix with the ketchup and form that tangy concoction that is basically the point of a fried egg sandwich. It’s actually a little impressive, how thoroughly this egg has been ruined.

Still. It’s only a broken egg, and I’m determined to have a good day. It’s a Bank Holiday, for crying out loud; enjoying it is practically the law. The dog loves an egg; he can have a good day too.

On my way to pick up his bowl, I select a new egg and leave it on the counter. It’s as I straighten up, dog bowl in hand, that I hear the bad news in the form of a wet crack on the floor behind me. Turning around, I confirm the worst; I’ve broken another egg.

Sighing, I scoop the broken egg up in its shell and dump it into the dog’s bowl. I can’t just keep giving him eggs – much as he’d like me to – but it’s not like I do this all the time. I dump the eggshell in the food bin and get a third egg.

By this time the first egg is almost cooked, enough that I can get it out of the pan without bits going everywhere. I dump it in the dog’s bowl along with the one that broke on the floor, leave it on the side to cool (I’d love to say he has the sense not to eat things that burn, but he really doesn’t) and turn back to the cooker.

I crack the egg on the counter and pour it into the pan. It’s good; no break this time. But… I frown, peering in.

Is it me, or does the white look… not so white?

I dither, watching as the clearness fills up with, not the usual clean white, but sort of a cream colour with yellow streaks. Yeah, that doesn’t look right. It can’t be rotten – I know that smell fills a room in seconds – but it doesn’t look appetising.

I groan. I’m hungry! All I want is a fried egg sandwich! Is that so much to ask? How many eggs do I have to go through?

I watch the egg solidify in the pan. What the hell, I decide. It’s obviously not rotten, it’s just the white looks a little strange. I’ll risk it.

But as I go to flip the egg, my face ends up directly over the pan. Frowning, I pick it up, under my nose, and sniff.

Yeah. That definitely smells funny.

It’s obviously not quite rotten in a way that fills the room with its stink, but maybe it’s just on the turn. It’s clearly not okay to eat. Even if it’s safe, I’d spend the whole day wondering.

I turn the heat off and slide the egg into the food bin. Now what?

I can’t help thinking that three wasted eggs are enough for one plan. But I’m hungry!

I take a deep breath, then another one. I’m not letting a little ovoid misfortune ruin a Bank Holiday. I’m not.

I slip into the lounge with my bowl of cereal and turn the TV on. The dog looks up from the patch of sun where he’s sleeping.

“Look in your bowl.” I point towards the kitchen. “Go on! Look in your bowl!”

He flops his head back down with a sigh.

“I wanted those eggs, you know,” I tell him. “The least you could do is appreciate them.”

I put my bowl on the coffee table. I usually put the milk in the freezer for five minutes before putting it on the cereal, but today I couldn’t be bothered to wait that long. It was in there long enough to cut up the dog’s fried egg with the spatula, because why not, put the bowl on the floor, pour my cereal and stand around making impatient noises until I couldn’t be bothered any more. Probably two minutes. The milk is cold, but not crispy-cold the way I usually have it.

Oh well. No use crying over slightly-not-cold-enough milk.

I turn my attention to the TV screen, which is a mass of random pixels. A helpful note at the bottom reads, “Low Signal Quality,” because I won’t have figured this out for myself.

I flick through a few channels, but they’re all the same. Random pixels, or a blank screen, sometimes interrupted by a jagged, senseless few seconds of picture. I was hoping to catch an episode or two of the Frasier marathon that’s usually on this time of day, but I guess that’s not going to happen.

Never mind. I cross over and pick up a different remote. I’ve probably got something on the DVR that’s worth seeing. The machine boots up and I scroll through the menu until I reach a Hammer horror I probably taped around Hallowe’en.

Well hallelujah, the film actually plays! I skip past the adverts and turn back to my cereal while the opening credits roll. The cereal has, naturally, turned to mush.

I stare at it for a second, then sit with a weary sigh to rival the dog’s. I’m not throwing out three eggs and a bowl of cereal, I’m just not.

“You know,” I tell the dog. “If I’d turned the TV on sooner, I’d have noticed the signal problem and got the film started while I was waiting for the milk to chill. Then I’d have nicely chilled milk that hadn’t had time to swamp the cereal while I was fussing around with the TV. Oh well, live and learn.”

I swirl my mush around the bowl and start eating.

I also forgot to get myself a drink, but oh well.

The film is as gothically flamboyant as you’d expect from a Hammer offering, providing a nice counterpoint to my breakfast struggles. I find myself chuckling at times, the melodramatic events played so deadly serious actually making me feel better. True, I’m not enjoying a nice fried egg with the runny yolk pleasantly mixed with the ketchup just how I like it, but hey, it’s not like I’ve been walled up in a tomb. The milk may not be as cold as I’d usually have it, but no one has ever tied me up and tried to kill me with a pendulum.

A few things may have gone wrong, but there’s still plenty of bank holiday left. I’ll watch the end of this film, then if I can persuade him to shift himself, I’ll take the dog for a walk.

Suddenly, from the kitchen I hear a rending noise followed by a loud, wet splat. No, not a splat; a splatter, as of many damp objects falling a short way onto plastic. Many damp objects, and three eggshells.

The dog lifts his head, staring at me in alarm. He doesn’t know what happened, but I do.

That rotten egg has melted through the binbag.