Of all the eggs I have known, this one took the biscuit. Covered in almond sugar and laced with caramel, it was the third egg that the Beaujolais Weaver bird had laid that week, each one accompanied by some light jazz. It favoured the earlier work of Fredi Feelgood Banana-Joe. The first egg had appeared shortly after an alto sax solo, shortly after a spectacular paradiddle on the Swiss cymbals.
I fried the egg, as is my custom. It tasted sweet, but the smell was off-putting. Sickly, with notes of burnt cherry. It put me off my soldiers.
In other news. I am annoyed. Really, rather spectacularly annoyed. A dimmer switch of my acquaintance – let’s call him Andrew – fizzed and spluttered earlier in the night and my reactions were to slow from preventing him from committing spectacular interior electrics suicide. Bastard. I mean, obviously, my inner catholic is delighted that some of the four gillion halogen lights in the house are out of action, but the way it happened – that little window of opportunity when I had the chance to react ‘perfectly’ and save the wiring – has made me very cross. With Andrew. Myself. Philips. And whichever idiot wired the house.
Minor rage. It’s a bit like a Morris Minor. But it has a smaller carburretor. I think Rhianna should write a song about her carburettor – maybe the Metro and Lite hacks would then write black and white sonnets, I mean gobbets, of wisdom about the correlation between increases in congestion charging and the presence of a song in the charts.
Pants. The grouch that laid the frayed-wire egg.