Chapter 23. There was a knocking at my door. It would keep. The thing about knocking, or a ringing

telephone, is that most people react to them like some sort of Pavlovian dog. They get exasperated

when they are interrupted, when it is they themselves that are doing the interrupting. I chose not to do so.

It was 10 to 8.

Many was the day when that time might find me sound asleep,

or, in case that state should sound too healthful, at least powerfully unconscious.

But not today.

Sleep had been fitful, and in the end, hunger had won out.

I had neatly lifted the cap off my soft-boiled

egg only four minutes ago and I would not be rushed. The knocking was persistent, I'd

have to give it that. That alone was worthy of consideration. Most people would give up and go away,

assuming that I was not home. Whomever was currently standing at my door seemed fairly certain

that I was on the

other side of it. They also seemed unprepared for the possibility that I would simply ignore them.

I dipped another toast soldier in my egg. This was really the only way to eat a soft boiled egg,

and usually I couldn't be bothered. Usually I boiled it a little too long and scooped the whole

mess out onto a single piece of rye toast, buttered and uncut. Then I mashed it a little too long and scooped the whole mess out onto a single

piece of rye toast, buttered and uncut. Then I mashed it around with a fork and made sort

of an open-faced sandwich. It was good. This was better. I dunked the toast in the egg again.

I was getting down to the last of the yolk, which would mean it would be time to move on to

stage two, scraping the inside of the shell out with a teaspoon to collect the egg white along the sides.

This is how I ate them when I was a kid, and most of the time I was too grown up to do it now even when no one was watching, which was almost all the time.

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