A boiled egg

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Last night they gave me a boiled egg with my salad. Well, they gave everybody one. Actually, I only know for certain that they gave everyone on my table a boiled egg. We eat four to a table; which is not bad. I would prefer my own table of course, but perhaps that’s asking a bit too much. They like us to swap around a bit so that we don’t eat with the same people all the time. In that way we socialise more, get to know one another; they think this is good therapeutic practice – and it probably is. Of course, people being people, we tend to stick to our own little group of four. For example, on my table there is Clive, Derek and a girl I haven’t mentioned to you before: Carmen. Why her mother should have given her a Spanish name I do not know; she’s as English as you or me (well, not you, obviously.) I don’t know how she’s ended up on our table because she hardly ever speaks to any of us. And when she does it’s usually to curse. I asked her what she was in for. ‘Piss off’ she replied.

Actually I think she’s got a “borderline personality disorder”. Maybe even a full-blown personality disorder.

But to get back to the egg. As I say, in the interests of accuracy I can only be certain that everybody on our table had one, but I think it is reasonable to assume that all the other tables had boiled eggs because the staff here are very fair.

Now I love boiled eggs, but for some reason I just sat there looking at this particular egg. There was nothing really special about it. They had removed the shell and it was all white and shiny and firm. But I just could bring myself to slice into it. My knife was poised – but it remained in the air. An image of a hen, clucking and straining, had just come into my head. I thought: a hen does not go through all that to produce an egg so that I can eat it; the hen, presumable expects her egg to produce a little chick, which in turn would grow up into a hen (or possibly a cock – but I don’t want to complicate the issue unnecessarily) and so the furtherance of the race of ‘chicken’ would be assured. And then I come along and stop the process of reproduction: I eat the egg.
I put down my knife and just stared at the egg: a potential chick, just boiled away. Suddenly I felt very said. Is this really what life is all about?

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Carmen. She must have been watching me.
‘Wrong with what?’ I pretended not to know what she was talking about.
‘The egg. The friggin’ egg!’ shouted Carmen.
The others stopped in mid chew and looked up, expectantly.
‘There’s nothing wrong with the egg. I’m just not hungry.’ I eventually answered.
‘I’ll have it then.’ And without waiting for a reply, Carmen reached over, speared the ‘dead chick’ and transferred it to her plate.
I felt slightly nauseous. ‘I’m going to my room,’ I said, and got up from the table. ‘and if you wish to divide the rest of my meal amongst yourselves, that is fine by me.’ And, with as much dignity as I could muster, I left the dining room.

When are you coming to see me, Anna? Sometimes I think that you are never going to come; that you have settled in with Brian and will soon forget about me. Then again, I think that it is perhaps Brian; that he wants to keep you to all to himself. I know he said he would bring you, but this fault with his car – are you sure he is telling you the truth about that?

I’m sorry Anna. Paranoia. It’s just paranoia. I’m feeling pretty fragile at the moment. That business with the egg: I wouldn’t have become so upset if I hadn’t been feeling so vulnerable myself. I think the sadness I was feeling for the chick was really sadness for myself.
But hey, I shall dance again. In fact I am bouncing back already. I know you won’t let me down. We’ve shared so much, haven’t we? And I look forward to sharing so much more.

I’ve been taking some photographs – just around the place - I think I may be getting the bug again. I can’t wait to show them to you. Of course, I could put them on the blog, but it will be much cosier, I think, for us to view them together.

Writing to you helps enormously. And Freddie thinks it is good therapy. By the way, he is looking forward to meeting you.

Write soon – with a definite date for the visit. (48 hours notice, please)

Your Georgie.