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I hated eggs as a kid. Much of my Sunday mornings was spent scrounging mouthfuls of my dad鈥檚 cooked breakfast. I would succeed only to find the spoonful of fried produce shoved in my direction was tainted with egg, triggering the ever spectacular spazzy gag reflex. But years past, Sunday morning hangover breakfasts were consumed and I slowly came round to the frankly bizarre idea of eating potential baby chickens.

In any case, something led to me getting a frying pan out last night and pouring fork-prodded eggs into it. Seahorse mentioned weak whisking in her cooking advice and I assume that鈥檚 what it was. Only without a whisk. It took me a while to work out whether the yellow stuff on my leg was egg yolk or part of the tiny burn I sustained when I jumped, at the telly, the yolk flew from the pan and hit me on the shin. Whatever it was it serves as a sober reminder to us all never to cook in a wheelchair wearing only a Sleepy Sheep nightie. Particularly the Sheep nighty part, especially if the burn had been worse, 鈥渨hy hello Mr Paramedic鈥�.

I would post a photo but my leg is stubbly and most of my hair removal products require that you have the full compliment of skin layers before you apply them.

Moving very swiftly on.

Last night, Tuesday the 10th of July 2007, I made my very first omelette. I do believe that is a Crippled Culinary Achievement. I only hope it is greeted with less scepticism by the editor than the First Time I Made Cheese on Toast ;-)

Oh and one last thing: Horse.*

*I had a 拢1 bet that I could finish another blog with that word. What can I say, I need money. I鈥檓 out of eggs.