The egg explosion

Mark’s brother, Luke, and his girlfriend, Bec, are in town for a visit. This is pretty big news because town is Munich and they live in Sydney. It’s also big news because they’re fantastic tourists – the kind that want to experience everything with just enough detail as to make it worthwhile (but not so much that you want to pry your eyes out with hot pokers or something more awkward, like a bathmat).

The only downside of having ambitious, interesting people in town is that I’m forced to be a decent person who gets up at a decent time. The type of person who eats breakfast. At breakfast time.

So this morning, at a time I wasn’t prepared to be awake, I found myself sitting in a rather pleasant cafe. I say “found myself” because I don’t quite remember the trip there.

The whole thing put me in a jovial mood. I wanted to celebrate. But how? Champagne? No, decent people don’t drink alcohol at 8am, I told myself with just the slightest hint of a slur. Topless table dancing? It was an option. It’s always an option. But I came up with something even better...

When my breakfast arrived, I daintily picked up an egg spoon, placed my soft-boiled egg in the centre of my plate and then ceremoniously smashed the top of it so hard that its innards exploded all over the table. There was baby chicken guts everywhere – yolk on my scarf, egg white on the salt and pepper shakers, yolk on the egg white, egg whites on the floor, yolk in hair, egg shells between butt-cheeks...

It was just grand enough to warrant a call from whoever is responsible for Sydney’s New Year’s Eve fireworks.

I’m waiting.