Dumped, Actually(77)

I’ve woken up in this house to the first sound many times. Dad likes to attempt DIY every now and again, when enough time has passed for him to forget that he’s not very good at it. He may have green fingers, but he definitely doesn’t have an eye for a spirit level or hammer.

I have never woken up to the second noise, though.

Raised voices downstairs can mean only one thing – something dreadful has happened. Mum and Dad are two of the most placid and laid-back people on earth, so there must be some kind of emergency!

I leap out of bed and throw my clothes on in what feels like a split second. I then hurry out of my bedroom, across the landing and down the broad flight of stairs.

‘Mum! Dad!’ I holler, fear and panic in my voice. Something awful must be happening!

I storm towards the kitchen, fearing that I’m about to see some sort of hideous accident. Maybe Mum has put her hand in the blender, or maybe Dad has somehow managed to impale himself on a bread knife.

A whole series of dreadful images shuttle across my brain as I rush down the hallway. I can still hear Mum and Dad’s raised voices, but I’m not paying much attention to what they’re actually saying, such is the sense of impending dread that has overcome me.

‘Mum! Dad! Are you okay?’ I wail as I speed through the kitchen door, expecting to see blood everywhere.

However, instead of finding my parents locked in a death struggle with a pair of maniacal burglars, I find them stood in front of the hob, with a boiled egg between them. I can tell the egg is boiled, because there’s a pot of bubbling water on the front hob, and steam rising from the egg itself.

It isn’t even a gigantic boiled egg, imbued with murderous sentience, and about to kill the two most important people in my life. It’s just a regular old boiled egg, sat on the spoon that Dad is holding in front of him.

Mum has her hands placed firmly on her hips and a look of fury on her face. Dad also looks like he’s about to bust a blood vessel.

What the hell is going on here?

What could that boiled egg have possibly done to incur such wrath from my parents?

I mean, boiled eggs are possibly the most harmless thing on the planet. They’re even more harmless than an unboiled egg, which at least has the potential to give you food poisoning if not cooked properly. A boiled egg, on the other hand, has had any danger comprehensively removed by the boiling process. Its only capacity to cause any real harm has been taken away from it. About the only way you could now make the boiled egg dangerous is to throw it, but unless it’s a hard-boiled egg, then it couldn’t do much damage anyway, could it? And my father likes a soft-boiled egg, so we can safely rule out its effectiveness as a ballistic weapon.

No.

I have no idea why I’ve developed this sudden obsession with the lethality or otherwise of your average boiled egg, either.

Maybe it’s got something to do with the fact that both of my parents look extremely angry – and I’m having trouble processing it, as I’ve never seen it before.

‘Good morning, Oliver,’ Mum says, still looking angry as all hell and back.

‘Hello, son,’ Dad intones, the boiled egg quivering on the spoon a little.

Why do they both look so mad?

‘What’s the matter?’ I ask them. ‘Has the boiled egg done something?’

‘What?’ Mum and Dad say in perfect unison.

I point at the boiled egg. ‘The boiled egg. Has it done something to make you both angry?’

This is how alien it is to see my parents looking angry around one another. I am perfectly willing to accept that a non-sentient, softly boiled egg is the cause of their anger, rather than anything else. The concept of them being angry at each other is completely impossible. It just doesn’t happen.

No. It must be the boiled egg.

Mum and Dad seem to forget their towering rage for a moment and both stare down at the boiled egg as if it’s about to leap at one of their throats. They then both turn back and look at me, mirroring the same expression of confusion as they do so.

‘It’s a boiled egg, son,’ Dad says. ‘It can’t make anybody angry.’

‘It could if you threw it at them,’ I reply, knowing full well that I’ve now dragged my father into my boiled egg obsession.

‘Are you feeling alright, Oliver?’ Mum asks.

‘Um. . . no. I heard you both shouting. I thought something was really wrong.’

Mum then glares at Dad. ‘Something is really wrong, son! And I’m sorry we woke you up because of it!’

‘Is it the boiled egg?’ I ask.

What the hell is wrong with me? I need to get off the boiled egg talk and fast, before my nearest and dearest have me committed.

‘It’s got nothing to do with my ruddy boiled egg, son!’ Dad snaps, and drops the offending article on to the counter top, where it breaks, allowing the soft yolk to run out.

You see? No ballistic integrity at all. The egg would just break open, and all you’d do is cover your assailant in runny egg yo—

‘Your father is being intolerable again, Oliver!’

Dad gasps. ‘I’m being intolerable??’

Mum wags a finger at him. ‘Yes, Leonard! Completely intolerable!’

‘I . . . I . . . Er . . .’ I stammer.

What the hell is this?

What in God’s name is going on?