It's time we sat down and had a discussion about hardboiled eggs: in fact any sort of egg that presents the white and yolk as separate entities and textures for the mouth to negotiate.
It's not just the congealed sliminess of the white or the dried up powdery clagginess of the yolk; it's the aroma of sulphurous fish that wisps about in the surrounding atmosphere, and the assumption that we all want to chomp on birdbabies (copyright nephew), so these monstrosities can be sneakily added to anything (hold your hands up, Pret-a-manger!) and the public won't mind.
Oh deary me.
I have spent my life terrorised by these things. I have nothing against the beautiful shape of the shell, nor the gorgeous colour of the yolk (my favourite shade of deep yellow). It's the assertion that these things are edible that gets to me.
I met a fellow citizen on the abolitionist route when I worked at the Labour Party HQ in the 1990s. Standing at the lift with his double-decker trolley of sandwiches waiting to go up to the second floor, he launched into an effortless riff on the horrors of sharing a kitchen with the hardboiled-egg sandwich makers.
"Ar carn't stand the smiw", he grimaced, face demonstrating a visible urge to retch. He looked into the distance, reliving the terrible routine that he was subjected to every morning as the hardboiled eggs were shelled and sliced.
My heart warmed to a kindred spirit. I was not alone.
Fact: the Offsprogs lived in an almost egg-free environment when they were young. Now, my house resounds to the smiw of fried eggs whenever they are around. They are making up for lost time. I hold my breath and count to eleven; their company is worth a million hardboiled eggs.
Such is parenthood.