Some things happen which just have to be shared…I had started off my weekend rather well in motherly housewifey terms. I had shown the vacuum cleaner around the lounge (just in case it had forgotten where it was) and managed to get in a quick shop before I was due back to take my daughter to her appointment to have her hair dressed for a posh school do (note the contrast in weekend agendas here).
I was running a little late, as usual, and, though heaven forbid, mother speeding, obviously took a corner rather too quickly; I heard a thud as my shopping jettisoned itself across the floor behind me. I parked up and as I opened the back door to survey the damage, an egg gently rolled out and deposited its contents at my feet. Upon closer inspection, which wasn’t hard, as an egg apocalypse had clearly just occurred, I only had two eggs left intact from my box of 6 free range. That left three to account for, not forgetting that I’m short of time here and in danger of landing some short shrift from an unhappy daughter for being late. One (egg, not daughter), having flown the box as it were, was already soaking into the carpet making it look for all the world like some sort of French toast. I then spotted another yolk which had cleverly parted company with its white bit (I know there is a scientific name for this which escapes me just at this time) and was sitting on the bottom of the door frame. Amazingly, it was totally intact which proves, officer, that I can’t have been driving that fast.
At this point, I have to explain, not to brag that I’m posh or anything, but because you need this information to picture my scene, that our car has electronic sliding doors, on the bottom of which currently sat the aforementioned egg yolk. (This is getting to sound more and more like a police report. ) Strangely though, I was still short of an egg. One egg short of a half dozen one might say. Now I’m not one to bet (although I did have a punt on a Euromillions ticket this week, and then spent the day worrying that a lottery win would be just another complication in life to deal with), but the odds on this happening were so slim that a bet could have scooped someone a tidy sum. Egg number 6 (two in the box, one on the floor, one for the toast and one piece of evidence that I hadn’t been speeding) had actually projected itself out of the box and landed like a hole in one in the pocket of the sliding door. Now anyone with a Peugeot 807 with sliding doors will tell you that there was definitely no woman on its design team; the pockets on the door are pretty much inaccessible for any kind of valeting. I thought I’d found a clever solution by calling upon the services of our dog, who will usually clean up anything which is edible. However, she had no interest in clearing up the egg devastation and, seeing the car open, settled herself in, keen to go on a trip. My only solution was to get in the back with her, close the door and attempt to de-egg (another new word maybe?) the car with a bucket and cloth.
We did make it for said hair appointment (quick aside, we took the dog too as I’d forgotten she was still in the car!), and as I returned home with my daughter looking ready to sweep down the red carpet at the Oscars (I could lend her my vacuum cleaner for that, ha ha!), my thoughts turned back to my eggs. You never know, if ever we break down and we’ve not taken a food parcel with us just in case (shock horror!), dried egg may come in handy and I might be able to rustle up a meal.