Towards the end of primary school I did a lot of competitive swimming, which meant going to galas all over London in the evenings after school. It was usually the Parent who took me, and before we piled in the car she always tried to get me to eat a boiled egg. Trouble was, my stomach was always full of fists and snakes and acid before a gala so eating was torture. I'd have preferred some butterscotch Angel Delight, but I suppose that wasn't Nutritious.
An unfortunate by-product of those years was that boiled eggs came to stand for jittery nerves and so were off the menu completely, until I met Herself. (I've got her back onto mushrooms, she's got me back onto boiled eggs. But I still can't do pesto.)
Now a boiled egg (4 mins) is a treat for breakfast, with Marmite soldiers, and those swimming galas a warm memory. Of course I mainly remember the ONE time the Old Man came to collect me from a gala in somewhere bizarre like Hornsey, and all I could hear as I came up for air was snatches of his favourite supportive yell, "Come on my son!" Or, as I heard it, "Cuh ayyy onn" I'm fuzzier on all the many galas the dear Parent slogged out to, not because they didn't matter as much but because it was normal, that she was there. Taken for granted? 'Fraid so. But now I see it, and I'm grateful.
Grateful too, for the eggs, which surely meant the difference between winning and losing. Maybe the many kids the St. Peter's team THRASHED in the pool would have done better with a bit of boiled egg inside their tummies. Poor dears.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
hmmm. boiled eggs are still a bit wrong by themselves. i don't mind them in salad nicoise or as devilled eggs but not whole.
ReplyDeletewe had to eat them for sunday tea. and i still don't like the other things my mum made us like asparagus soup and sardines.
but at least i didn't have to do swimming galas. eek. i did have to do recorder concerts though. but buouancy/food isn't an issue. just breathing and moving fingers.
was it the flatulence that gave you the edge?