In Search Of Perfection

The bunting is down, the complaints to the BBC sent off and my red, white and blue knickers washed and folded away.  The Diamond Jubilee has come and gone and the conveyor belt of this year’s events trundles on, bringing the Olympics into view.  I’m not going to lie to you, we’ve been pals too long for that, but I’m not much of a royalist.  However, I did enjoy the spirit of  friendliness and community that seemed to break out across the four corners of the Isle.  People in towns and villages tipped their caps to neighbours and strangers alike, grown men were allowed to paint the faces of small children they didn’t know without social services getting involved but if there was a more fitting tribute to Her Maj than Zoo magazine’s “Topless Diamond Boobilee” then I don’t want to know about it.

During the celebrations I heard a story about a certain member of the royal family and a certain foodstuff.  Don’t worry though, it’s not like the story about the certain member of the royal family and the glass-topped coffee table.  I can’t be entirely sure of the truth of the story so I will change names to protect the innocent.  Let’s just call this royal personage “Prince C” (a.k.a The Welshman a.k.a Grumpy Architect).  Actually, whether or not the story is true is unimportant because like all stories it leads us to a bigger truth.

Apparently, “Prince C” (a.k.a FA Cup Head a.k.a The Kilt) loves a boiled egg for breakfast.  And who can blame him?  A boiled egg can be a perfectly wonderful breakfast if the white is set just so and the yolk warm and runny.  Personally I also favour a few buttered soldiers that, when dipped push the yolk up and over the lip of the cracked shell like a teensy, non life-threatening volcano.

In my life, this morning perfection happens rarely.  What with using eggs that are a bit old, or making sure the kids have got their breakfast, by the time I sit down to eat, my eggs are usually a bit under or over done.  I would contest though that it is the memory of these crappy eggs that makes the moment I get it spot on all the more delicious. 

Here’s the deal with the prince.  His staff are so keen that he should have his every whim attended to that every time “Prince C” (a.k.a The Polo Prince a.k.a Baldychops) wants a boiled egg for breakers his cook makes him six.  Each egg is then cut open and inspected, five are discarded and the one that most matches the prince’s idea of eggy perfection is served to him.

So, just in case you missed it, each time Prince C (a.k.a Veg Talker a.k.a Overpriced Biscuits) has a boiled egg for breakfast it is perfect.  My question is this.  If the only time you have a boiled egg it is perfect, can you truly appreciate the perfect boiled egg?