Aged 19 and nearing the end of my first Inter-Railing trip, I was winding down after an amazing trip around Europe by breathing in the wonders of Paris. Then, sacré bleu, out of nowhere a raw ‘oeuf’ was launched in my general direction from a passing Citroen 2CV. The first I knew of it was when it made contact with my behind (right cheek – no, I literally mean it hit my right cheek) and exploded with its yolky yukyness leaving its sulpherous mark all over me. Despite clearly being traumatised, in time I managed to move on and proceeded to live a relatively normal life. But I was counting my chickens rather too soon.
Ten years later, practically to the day, I found myself in Florida and returning from an enjoyable evening out. Taking the short walk back along the high road and being serenaded with those 80s power ballads so loved by Americans as their trucks screeched past, all of a sudden a completely different sound pierced the summer night. I had been shot, shot in the ass, and as I fell to the ground I let out a primeval scream. My life ebbing away, my cousin said, “Oh boy, that’s gotta hurt.” Er, YES, being shot in the ass DOES kinda hurt. She also went on to point out that the missile had in fact been yet another egg. This time I’d been hit on the left cheek.
I’d like to just point out that both these snipers were excellent shots as, even though the respective cheeks swelled up very impressively after impact, the original targets were in fact of a small, pert, tidy nature. In case anyone was wondering.
For this to have happened once could just be bad luck (un oeuf is enough and all that), but to have suffered it twice is, quite frankly, over-egging this particular pudding.