Eggs you might think are just eggs, but of course it’s not so, not all eggs are equal. There is a finely graduated hierarchy, a delicately nuanced pattern of differentiation which is manifest in the caste system that invisibly divides the scrambled from the fried or the poached from the coddled. With this in mind it was with no slight consideration that I placed my order for that king of meals, the weekly Fryday Rosas. As is often the case in life I little realised the consequence of my actions on causing the words "egg", "chips" and "beans" to be imprecisely incised in an impenetrably codified hand onto the small rectangular recycled paper ticket, no. 239.
Sitting by the window on a clear day the sun is fierce, even on an autumn day, a two rounds of tea day. Eggs, like buses and bad news share a popular numerical propensity. Double egg and chips is de rigueur for a Fryday lunch and buses whose frequent infrequency is gratefully resolved and greeted knowingly with the observation that you often don’t see one for ages and then……… Not that I could honestly say that "I’ve not seen one for ages" where eggs are concerned but when it comes to the appearance of the much prized double yolker well that’s another story altogether.