There is no greater love than that of a girl for her egg-cooker.

My mother, benevolent scion of wisdom that she is, got me a Sunbeam egg-cooker for Christmas. I had raptures of joy, but due to holidays and moving and lack of eggs, haven't been able to use it until today.

It was a pivotal, controversial occasion. Anfy gave me shit for looking up the directions.
"You don't need instructions for a saucepan," he said.
"Fuck off," said I.

Anfy asked questions: "What's the difference between a hard- and soft-boiled egg?"
Me: "The idea is that a soft-boiled egg has the yolk still gooey."
Anfy: "So you cook a hard-boiled egg for longer?"
Me: "You're taking the piss, aren't you?"

Turns out, he knows not of the glories of a boiled egg. At all. Like, even slightly.
"What are you doing?" he asked, in the tones of one who's discovered someone licking soft furnishings.
"Cutting my bread into soldiers," said I.
"Into what?"
"You've never heard of soldiers? They're for dipping in the egg. Like this!"

He watched in horrified fascination for a moment, and then fled to work. So I enjoyed my boiled egg All By Myself.

And it was GREAT.