eggs 25 October 2009
My Brother, Ian, can’t be doing with the Egg much at all at all, which is something I only learned about him today. He can handle scrambled eggs but when they are fried or poached and, particularly, runny (the Snotty Egg, as I have heard those called, to great effect) he almost faints. I don’t know if it amounts to a morbid fear but it’s serious. He refused a breakfast roll yesterday, that great staple of the Irish diet (basically a heart attack in a bread roll) and he’d been looking forward to it as a hangover cure as well as ballast before his game of golf because proudly atop it was a soft fried egg and when he went to move it to the side of his plate the yolk went everywhere. He had to be helped out of the cafe with the weakness that overtook him. Reminds me of Myles na gCopaleen (or was it alter ego Flann O’Brien???) talking about The Brother, also, and pointing out that his was agin the Egg too because The Egg never dies but gets down into the bag and hangs around, perhaps in perpetuity…
