Do you ever get the feeling that walking home with eggs in your hand makes you more vulnerable? As though you were somehow implicated in the eggs' fragility?
Like yesterday. There I am with a half dozen super-special nature brown organic eggs  in a shopping bag and suddenly I'm imagining accidents everywhere - speeding cars at every crossing, a bus ploughing onto the pavement, my feet slipping on a patch of ice. It's as though I'm haunted by this vision of my body and the eggs both lying broken on the sidewalk, my blood mingling with the spilled yolk.
This is why I don't make omelettes.
 I'm not, in general, big on the whole organic thing - but the only eggs available in a half dozen pack at my local grocery store are the la di da organic ones. And buying twelve eggs for one person (me) seems like bahut nainsaafi. Oh, for the good old days of walking down to the khokhawalla at the corner and saying "do ande dena". (though to be fair, even he used to give me pitying looks).