On my way home from the Carlton I found half an eggshell on the pavement. It was startlingly, eerily white in the darkness. I took it home, and it almost seemed to glow in the darkness of the passage from Hale Avenue to Frenchs Road. All the way home I was frightened that I would crush it, perhaps stumbling on a tree-root or tripping on a stone or simply moving my clumsy hand too suddenly. Frightened, too, that when I saw it in the light it would turn out to be dull and greyish, like the glistening jewels snatched from the sea-bed or shoreline which when examined at home turn out to be lifeless chunks of dusty rock.
I also encountered two cats on the way home. One of them was a comfortably and sedately fat black and white moggy, which sniffed me, rubbed its head against my ankles, and then went to rub its head (with no less enthusiasm) against a nearby gatepost. The message was clear: I was superfluous. The other was a tiny skittish kitten, which darted back and forth between my legs as I crouched to stroke it, licked my hand, pawed it, and then bit it with tiny needling teeth. Again I felt that I had been weighed in the balance, but this time I was left unsure as to whether or not I had been found wanting.
The eggshell was still gleaming white in the artificial light of the house. I put it down carefully while I made myself some decaffeinated coffee.
Only one thing remained to make my evening complete: I needed to know which cocktail best represented my personality. Of course.
""Which cocktail are you?""
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