Don’t put all eggs in one basket, they say. It means you need to be emotionally promiscuous, keep your options open. I hate the idea. There is enough to explore with just one egg.

The egg. Boiled so hard that it knocks its own shell off. Then there is the kind that jiggles ever-so-slightly like a debutante at a ball...left for a little less time, the jiggling is more pronounced and the yolk peeps out like a sagging breast.

Occasionally, I have the eggs poached or fried. I watch the water bubble or the oil splutter in the pan. These days I don't care if the yolk misbehaves and spreads itself on the starchy white in a forced embrace. When I was young I wanted it just right, the yolk firm and full and pretty much in the centre. I guess I have realised things cannot be balanced and symmetrical.

I sometimes like the eggs scrambled, a light yellow mish-mash that lacks character but in the stray pieces there is a strange completeness.

The omelette, of course, is the one that needs the most work. With soft brown onion, peeping red slices of tomato, cheese or mushroom, and coriander if you are Indian. I love it when they say 'masala aamlet' in the eateries that dot small towns.

I can make a meal of a good omelette. It is possible to make a meal of anything when the ordinary takes the leap into something exceptional.

Nothing is special on its own. It is how we look at it.

Today, I choose to see the stains on my cheeks as a trail that tells me there are always roads, even if there aren't too many destinations.