Did I ever tell you my egg story? If I did: forgive me, and allow me to recount it again. Pull up a chair, and pretend to be interested. It would help if you lean forward, and nod occasionally.

I never used to eat eggs. I like to say from the womb on, because my mom stopped eating eggs while she was pregnant with me. She would throw up, you see, so I think after a while she understood she couldn't. And then I was born, and then I learnt to walk, and talk, and eat like a proper human being... And soon enough, someone sat me at a table and offered me a boiled egg.

Like any child learning to imitate the adults, I reached for the egg, put it in my mouth, chewed, swallowed.

Can you guess what happened next?

Yep.

Everywhere.

And my mom had to clean up.

And then over a period of time, my poor beleaguered mom tried different things. She tried frying the eggs. Putting them in stuff. Presenting them differently. Enticing me, threatening me, pleading with me. She must have thought I just didn't like the look of them, or the smell. But the result was always the same.

Yep.

So she gave up. And I came to accept that I didn't eat eggs. Not in cakes, not in anything. Not on their own. Not in any way, shape or form at all. And I would produce notes to the effect, so that at boarding school (and everywhere else), I would have special meals prepared for me. And I avoided eggs like the plague.

By the time I got to high school, I could more or less eat stuff that had traces of eggs in it… And as time went on, I could even eat cakes (even though I didn't like them!). I got to the point where I even learnt how to prepare eggs for everyone else at home. It was fine as long as they weren't fried, which was likely to send me running to the loo.

So that was me, non-egg-eater.

And then you know what happened, to cut this long story short? One fine day, when I was thirty-three and a bit or so, I found myself actively thinking about eggs. Not just thinking about them: wanting them. Craving them, in fact. So I turned to my sis, who was sitting next to me, and told her I wanted an egg sandwich. She looked round me to see the back of my head, in case it was open and empty. But she decided to play along, perhaps to see what might happen next; and we took a walk to the shops to buy some eggs, some bread, and some mayonnaise (which is how I wanted them- an egg sandwich). And some tuna, just in case. And we got home, and made egg sandwiches, and tuna sandwiches, and egg and tuna sandwiches.

And I wolfed down everything.

And that was how my egg allergy/aversion ended: not with a whimper, but a bang.

The End.