Moments later, the bathroom door clicks as the toilet flushes noisily behind it. Stumble back through the dark. The recycling bag crinkles loudly as I breeze by. Shoulder hits the door frame. I fall into bed like a toppled tree.
Repeat.
So much for uninterrupted sleep then. For the first time in a while, I've seen the early hours of the morning steadily brightening the room, with the glimmer of dawn through the curtains.
I think I ate something I shouldn't have, yesterday. My guess is that it was a rogue egg which smuggled its way to the bottom of the egg pile some months ago. I probably ought to start checking the date-stamp before I crack them open.
I was lulled into a false sense of security by eggs though, as a student. I split an egg and had to immediately evacuate the kitchen.
With a peg pinching my nose, and rubber gloves on, I eventually braved it and cleared up the mess. It still stands as the second vilest thing I've had to deal with in a pair of marigolds.
Ever since, (Sarah, you might want to skip this paragraph) I've applied a rather lenient egg-test: if it doesn't smell like the corpse of an irradiated skunk in the waste pipe of the Chernobyl nuclear reactor, it's probably okay. Generally speaking, I'd say I get through eggs much faster than they have a chance to decay beyond edibility, and it's never been a problem I've thought about. Perhaps not this week. You probably think I'm a twit for not checking the dates in the first place. Sigh. You're right. Or maybe I should just stop eating them altogether (that one's for you Sarah, if you're still reading).
And so it was I woke to the cold morning and wearily threw myself into the day. Threw is the right word: I threw myself out of the house and I threw myself into the frozen-wheeled-icicle that is my car.
Maybe, I thought to myself, I should start using it as en extra refrigerator.
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