The Gallus is Afoot

Someone’s eaten my eggs. They were in the fridge this morning, and now they’re gone.

Don’t get me wrong, dear reader. I’m not an obsessive personality. I don’t label my foods, line my milk, diamond-cut my toast. It’s not my style. But I love my eggs. As a vegetarian, my eggs are all I have in the way of protein. And now they’re gone. And I don’t know why, or who – or what – has made off with them. Following the discovery that my beloved free-rangers have been swiped, I return to my room. I don my imaginary deerstalker and make off with one of those translucent pipes Holly smokes weed in. My tongue burns as I pad the corridors of my flat, searching for this appropriator of ova, this poaching Peruggia. The eggs will be recovered. I’m on the hunt. Like an eagle searching for her unfertilised progeny, I will return my eggs to my roost, no matter the cost. I’m hatching a plot.

The Gourmet

The first stop is the room of my flatmate, Hannah. Hannah’s been huffing the eggs hard of late; omelettes for breakfast, egg-drop soup for lunch, prepared with only the most reticent sprinkling of bouillon. Hannah: the gourmet. Hannah: the prime suspect.

Like an eagle searching for her unfertilised progeny, I will return my eggs to my roost, no matter the cost. I’m hatching a plot

Knocking on Hannah’s door, I adopt the most serious of facial expressions, furrowing my brow until I resemble only the weariest of PIs. Ironic, then, that when Hannah comes to the door, it’s a Magnum she’s sucking on. Only for a moment do I picture the object as an egg. I thrust the empty cardboard box in her face as she peers out from the darkness, her face sunburnt from iMac exposure.

“Have you seen my eggs?” “What?” “Have you seen them? My eggs. Someone’s had my eggs.” “Yvette, I’ve got an exam in three hours. I’ve not taken your eggs.”

The door slams in my face, before I’ve even had time to wish her luck. Suspicious? I think so!

The Egg-Man

Hannah didn’t take my eggs because last night she stayed with Jacob. I should have known. No egg-swindler then, is Hannah. But the day drags on, and my heart is heavy. It should be my stomach that’s heavy, with eggs. But it’s my heart that weighs me down tonight. With loss. So distracted by the loss of my eggs am I that I don’t even bother to put my phone on charge. I’m on the case for my eggs, and whether I have to sit my first exam under-revised or die from lack of protein first, I’ll find out where those eggs have gone.

My dreams are assailed with eggs. Mainly dreams of being naked in my exams, but also eggs. I dream I come upon an abandoned house in the middle of the Californian desert. Approaching the rotting, wooden porch, a terrible premonition strikes me with fear. Are the eggs here? Does fate smile upon Yvette? Does it? Am I about to receive some terrible portent of my fate? Why am I so terrified to enter this decrepit domicile? Are the eggs inside? Is the chicken that laid them inside? Which came first? My hand is on the egg, by which I mean, the door handle.

It should be my stomach that’s heavy, with eggs. But it’s my heart that weighs me down tonight

Inside the house is bare, and a thin patch of light streaking in through the window illuminates a single, solitary creature. What is this monstrous beast, all pale and emaciated, surrounded by scraps of eggshell, yolky strands sliding from his red maw? I realise, in terror, that I’ve found him – this thief, this nightmare, this egg-man – the thief of my eggs.

I wake screaming.

The Real Egg-Man

Preliminary investigations have revealed few answers as to the whereabouts of my eggs. The eggs – well, they’re gone by now. Skipped town, probably. Their absence has scrambled my brain, rendered my nervous system wild and unpredictable. Olfactory hypnagogic hallucinations are a common symptom: I wake to the smell of frying eggs, before realising that there’s no smoke without eggs.

“Why don’t you just go out and buy some more?” was Hannah’s initial reaction to my torment. If only. If only it were that simple. I’m sure it is that simple. But if only it was. My notes on this case vastly outweigh my revision notes now. I know exactly who was in the flat the morning of the abd-egg-tion. I know the weather, the barometric pressure of Cambridge prior to the home egg-vasion. I’ve taken to slicing the corners from my notepaper until it resembles the familiar elliptical shape of the eggs themselves. My fixation on finding these eggs has become monastic in its devotion. Eggs Benedictine, you might say. But I wouldn’t say that. I don’t find puns funny.

My flatmates say at night I speak in my dreams, of mayonnaise and custard, pastry and the devil. They think my relationship with food is unhealthy, and I agree to go to brunch with them to placate my egg-rage. In the queue for the till I spot an athletic, handsome-looking man holding a plate full of eggs. Full of eggs, dear reader. Eight eggs at least. I follow him through the buttery, and see that his meal consists of eggs, a bottle of orange juice, and no bread. That’s right. He eats the eggs sans bread – sans eggs even, cutting the yolks away from the poor little eggs and discarding them. That’s no way to treat an egg. It’s too much for me. Leaving, I make for the shop and buy six eggs. And this time, no one will steal them. I’ll eat them all before the end of the day, or as many as I can. After all, any eggs you don’t eat will go to the egg-man. And he’s had enough eggs.