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Boiled eggs. The ideal ending to a bluesy Sunday.

You are far too lazy and far too depressed to even consider cooking anything which requires more than three ingredients. Frankly, the idea is absurd. But thank you, thank you for eggs. Easy, simple, beautiful eggs. What could possibly tarnish these precious planetary orbs?

The term ‘dippy’ springs immediately to mind. Let’s have dippy eggs for supper. DIPPY? They are not stupid. They are bright and brilliant, eggsclamation mark. Thus, if you are one of those philistines who uses this derrogatroy label to describe your boiled eggs, I suggest you boil yourself and indeed your attitude along with your prospective dinner. Little sister, you have henceforth been publicly disgraced.

Of course, an egg, smart or dumb, is not an egg without soldiers. All in a row. With identical suits of black armour. It has to be my mate, marmite. For those who are too rich, too cultured, too “Rome daaarling” for poor man’s soldiers, spears of asparagus are the next best thing. Either way, these troopers are defenceless, doomed to a digestible fate. A fate which is inextricably linked to the consistency of the yolk. More fiercely debated than the philosophical question of ‘the-chicken-or-the-egg’, the correct method of boiling the perfect egg is hotly contested. It has become, courtesy of Delia Smith, an art.

Whether you are, by nature, hardcore, mellow or somewhere in between, we are all aiming for that ‘pierce-and-ooze’ quality that our brave little soldiers can paddle in. Step one is easy: water in pan. Boiling? Cold? The jury is out. What you are more concerned with is how to get those delicately suicidal eggs out of the fridge and into the pan all in one piece, without burning the skin off your fingertips. Spoon them in, roll them in, catapult them in but for goodness’ sake do not allow them to touch the metal bottom. The dubious crack that oozes white pus signals game over.

Two bald ovals bump and bubble like silly twins riding the dodgems.

Minutes on the clock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Timing is everything.

So is the eating. The real question is, are you a Fisher or a Whittaker?

Egg eaters the world over will fall into one of these categories which relate to the method of attack used by my grandparents’ respective families.

If you are a Whittaker, like my grandfather, you will possess a merciless demeanor and a guillotine sharp knife. In the manner of The Queen of Hearts, Whittakers wield their blade with a firm hand and emit a bloodcurdling “Off With His Head” as their target is struck. A resounding crack of terracotta shell and it’s all over. Beheaded and bleeding sunshine, your victim awaits enemy invasion. Alas, your valiant soldiers meet a similar end, drowned in golden glue.

Or maybe, like my grandmother and the Fisher clan, you advocate a rather more nonviolent demonstration which does away completely with the savage knife. Instead, Fishers commission mirror shine spoons which skip happily to assistance. Concave meets concave. Gentle tap. Carefully and with love, Fishers peel the jigsaw pieces away to reveal a milky moon. A smooth edge sinks into pale skin with ease, uncovering the roof of a golden pool. Here, off duty soldiers bathe and melt in a snug jacuzzi, laid back, relaxed, perfect.

Whittaker or Fisher, we all mourn the empty, melancholy shell. All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t manage it but you can. So, without hesitation, put Humpty Dumpty back together again with a condescending pout. Hurrah!

Scrambled. Poached. Boiled. Fried. Sunny-side up. Sunny-side down. Raw with meat. Chocolate and sweet.