Every morning, at approximately 8.04am, listeners to the Chris Evans Breakfast Show will hear the tinny voice of Helen O'Connell singing "How d'ya like your eggs in the morning?" Those of us who don't fumble around for the nearest blunt instrument to slam down on the snooze button (or at least those who don't make it in time) will hear Dean Martin state proudly that he likes his eggs with a kiss. Good for you Dean. From my experience, however, it takes a little more than a healthy dose of PDA to turn some eggs into the perfect breakfast. There is nothing quite like the disappointment one experiences when someone doesn't make your eggs just how you like them, especially in the morning. 

Working the breakfast shift in a cafe will inevitably mean spending a rather long time discussing eggs. Poached or fried? Hard or soft? White or brown toast? ( Let me say now that I've made a personal vow never to let the words "sunny side up" ever escape my lips). It also entails spending a long time scraping the remains of the unloved eggs into the dustbin, and seeing that there are those who will only eat the yolk of a soft-boiled egg, and will leave the rest. Sacrilege. Still, the experience has shown me, to my relief (but mostly my amusement), that I am obviously not the only person who feels like getting the eggs perfect is an exact science. 

My favourite requests so far:

"Supremely hard-boiled please."
"None of that wibbly-wobbly stuff if you don't mind."
"I want them extra stiff."

And why shouldn't we be particular about it? After all, the humble egg forms a fundamental part of the Great British Breakfast, along with Weetabix and PG Tips. We all know that nothing will set you up for an exam or a long day at work quite like eggs for brekkie. And we're not the only ones either -- you can find them boiled or fried on top of the foul medames eaten in Egypt, or whisked into the feathery omelettes consumed with rice and soy sauce by the Japanese (or at least by all the Japanese students  I once shared a kitchen with.) 

So why the obsession? We're know they're good for us (incredibleegg.org tells me they contain the best type of protein found in any food -- score!) but I like to think there's something symbolic about eating eggs too. They are simple, versatile, filling and cheap. They make for comforting and wholesome meals, especially at the start of the day when you'd rather be hiding under the duvet.   There's even something satisfying about simply holding one in your hand, smooth and oval-shaped, ever so fragile. Eggs are, after all, where we all begin. A sign of new life, expectation and change. And are these not dissimilar to our emotions in the morning? With every boiled, poached or scrambled dish of that example of nature's genius that is the egg, how can we not but feel buoyed up, invigorated and excited about the day ahead? Can we not almost see it as a rebirth? A chance to screw up our courage and face the world with new, fresh hope -- to simply have another go.  

My first relationship was, in my opinion, everything a first romance should be. Innocent, all-consuming and completely unrealistic. He was tall, long haired, with a penchant for hard rock and kissing in public. I was a little bookworm who thought stripy socks, frilly skirts and Converses were the height of fashion. Naturally we were besotted. Many a long afternoon was spent in his tall, white house, mostly cuddled in front of the computer watching music videos or cocooned on the sofa.  He would sit and pick away at his guitar with calloused fingers, and I would hug my knees and watch, convinced that life could not get any better.

Getting along to the general theme of this blog, I should point out that very little food was consumed during these sunny days. He never ate much at all, but drank Coca Cola on tap ("my expensive coke habit" he used to call it) which for me, who found all this an alien idea, was a cause of incessant worry. I even brought him breakfast on more than one occasion. Though I barely ate there either. Somehow, when caught up in that delicious whirlwind of pubescent hormones, we simply weren't hungry. What did we need food for?

On the one or two occasions when the room (literally) started spinning and we realised that we hadn't eaten or drunk in 8 hours, we always called upon the same things. Toast and peanut butter (always prepared directly on the surface without a plate,  my mother would have died) and the occasional crunchy apple (straight from the bowl, never washed first). He had a particular way of "cooling down the toast," grasping it in one hand and swinging his arm back and forth through the air with a goofy look on his face. I thought it was hilarious.

We were (as I imagine many other couples are, at 16,) convinced that we would be together for life. I even remember a discussion about what colour to paint the walls of our house. Or rather our garret. He would be a musician, and I would be an actress, so our imminent poverty was an accepted fact. "But I won't care," I told myself one spring afternoon, when we'd finally escaped the house and were lying, eyes closed, on the garden swing seat; "we only need each other to be happy." Then, after a moment: "That is, as long as there are apples and peanut butter. Then we'll be just fine."  What perfect simplicity.