Might Be Mad

Of course, Asher had been a spy. And when Jan van der Platz--sixteen and Asher's loyal shadow for weeks--had learned that Asher was not German but English and had confronted him in tears, Asher had shot him to protect his contacts in the town, the Kaffirs who slipped him information and would be horribly killed in retaliation, and the British troops in the field who would have been massacred by the commandos had he been forced to talk.

"She wondered, too, whether she had hampered them by giving him her virginity. She knew that in his mind, she had forced them to start with him taking something from her. She could tell he felt guilty about it. The ribbon of blood on the sheet was a simple statement in cipher: this is serious. Blood , she wrote in her diary, is the colour of love ."

Learned a couple of things over lunch yesterday, and being the generous soul that I am, I thought I would share. Much of this concerns boiling eggs, which to me are one of nature's most sublime gifts (along with clouds and light breezes), full of goodness despite the cholesterol controversy, voluptuously beautiful and pregnant with a wealth of erotic metaphors in their admiration, preparation and general experience. Simply, one could not be near an egg without thinking unclean sorts... in a clean sorta way. I love eggs for the shape of the shell, for which I am at a loss for words to describe, beyond “perfect”, “sublime”, “mmm”; the shocking luminosity of “sunny-side up” which lights up a morning better than a kiss; the fluffiness of the rice wine infused egg white that forms the soft bed of a steamed crab; the rich taste and texture of the yolk, the way this seduces one's sense of taste, touch and smell in the mouth, before doing wonderful things to my head as it is swallowed....