
It was a regular Sunday morning that started out as a regular Sunday should. Sun out. Activewear on (for the exercise that may or may not happen, who cares). Destination: Coffee.
My partner and I decided to make the most of the beautiful weather and take a longer walk than usual to a café in the leafy backstreets of an inner-city suburb of Sydney. It was packed, so we took up the waitress’ offer to sit in a waiting area with a low table until a proper table became available.
We ordered our coffees (me: large soy cap, him: regular soy latte), and our breakfasts (me: the haloumi stack, him: scrambled eggs on toast with a side of sausages). All of the above arrived just perfectly, and by now we were cosy in our nook and didn’t want to move when a regular table became free. We had a nice view of the street, the trees, the passersby and enough space to just chill with the newspaper.
UNTIL IT HAPPENED. My partner started to make the first cut of his toast and the entire plate of eggs went flying, plate akimbo like an Olympic diver backflipping into the abyss of… the floor.
Cannot. Take. You. Anywhere. via GIPHY
We had an eggs overboard situation. Two attentive young staff came running over to help clean up, and they totally seemed to understand my partner’s misfortune (I won’t call him clumsy because that’s usually my claim to fame).
The kitchen made his eggs again and brought it on over, and we thought that was just lovely of them. But the café owner had a different take on what shall now be known between you and me as EggGate.