Back in the summer, when I escaped from the clutches of the hospital which I had gone to for emergency repairs, but was instead tortured by demons in the kitchen, the quack-in-chief ordered me to start every day with four boiled eggs. This I sensibly ignored, but compromised with a couple of ova instead. I ate that almost every morning for about a month then thought "^$## this!" and reverted to more sensible breakfasts such as gin and tonic; spliff; cold, leftover, cheap chain pizza etc.
This morning, I woke with a strange hankering for, damn it, boiled eggs. So:
Duck eggs (courtesy of my neighbour's duck, although I had to boil them myself. It seems ducks don't lay boiled eggs. Who knew?) Hand made flatbread (my hands).
Don't worry. I've booked a therapist appointment for this afternoon.
