My Little egg

Or

How Sex-ed caused me to carry around the shell of a dead chicken foetus for seven days.

As you can probably guess by the second title, this story is the journal about the joys of sex ed. In many schools they make you look after 'flower babies' and in others it's dolls. In ours its eggs. The things I eat for breakfast, well, lunch. But I thought it would be fun to keep a journal of my eggs adventures, in the same style of the Frodoll journeys.

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Day 2/3/03- two days before the experiment starts.

Today I got my egg. I had to get my own, and right now it's sitting in an egg box, staring at me. Or it would if it had eyes. Which it doesn't. My mother has emptied it, yes, I know I sound a bit lame for that, but I don't know how to shuck eggs. Neither does my mum, but she's more careful with eggs than I am.

I have two eggs. One for myself, and one to bribe someone with if they break, lose of forget theirs. The first one is round, pink and weights about a gram. On it is printed in neon pink -COLMBUS FR, and, BBO3MAR and a picture of a pixelised lion. Its thin, fragile shell is flawless, except for this blemish and the gaping hole on the bottom. The shell is smooth and cool to the touch, so much so that I can barely believe that it's not plastic. It's perfectly formed, coloured a light olive and yet it does not have a name.

But I said I had two eggs, and I do. The other is rather plain looking compared to the first. It's covered in bumpy speckles and is a lighter colour than the first egg. It's a little warped, so it looks a bit like a rugby ball instead of an egg. The stamp on it has been washed off so you can barely see it. The only words that can be made out are COLUMBUS FR and 5MAR. It's cool to the touch, but not at all smooth, and not as joyful to touch. Personally, I think the shell is weaker that the other eggs. Everything about the egg seems worse than the other one, yet, yet there's something about it that makes me ender to it. I sound crazy, feeling attached to an egg, but I consider these days as bonding with my egg.

As this is all just an allegory for having a child, I might as well bond with the egg. So far I have to choose between my eggs. Which one should I pick? The first, olive skinned, strong one, or my speckled ugly weak one? I should sound superficial if I said the former, but I have to think about it logically. One of my eggs has to get through a week being shoved in my bag, thrown about by people who don't like me and generally maltreated. So logic says the first. But I know I'll have to give my second egg away. That's what scares me. I think everything, including eggs deserves a good life (even if it doesn't get it) and as one of my eggs got me involved, I'll have to be careful who I give it to. There are many ham fisted, careless people in my class, and my egg can't go to them. I would feel like I was betraying my egg.

Now, that's a strange sentence, isn't it? I'm betraying an egg. It's not much of a sentence, but it has a certain abstract quality to it. But if you think about it, the term 'egg' is abstract. What is an egg? According to the oxford dictionary it is '1/ the spherical reproductive body produced by females of animals such as birds, reptiles, fish ect., enclosed in a protective layer and capable of developing a new individual. 2/ the egg of a hen, used for food.' The list of meanings goes on about helicopters and people who have qualifications. But if you think about it, all an egg is is the protective layer around a baby animal. So I'm betraying a shell. Right. I am mad, just to get that established before we go any further. I am completely crazy. That is why I'm writing a journal about an egg, okay? I don't have too much time on my hands, it is the opposite, but the prospect of having an egg with me intrigued me, and so, here I am talking about my egg, or eggs until I give one over to someone.

But what shall happen to my eggs? Well, it is most likely the stronger egg, will be kept and carried around with me for a week. The weaker egg will be given to someone who can look after it better than I can. One Tuesday we'll get our assignment and they will be painted and properly names. What I need is a good name for my egg. I have thought of a few..

Nathan.

Sam

Haldir (Haldir lives man!)

Tom Marvalo Riddle

And so, as I finish off the first entry, I tuck my eggs up into their little egg box, and get ready for their big adventure tomorrow - keeping out of trouble.

Please R and R me, to tell me if you ever had to look after an egg, and if you did, how you kept (or why you didn't) keep it safe. Or if this journal is a good enough idea to keep up for nine long days. Tomorrow's account won't be that interesting, but Tuesdays will! (Also, even though Fiction press will get pissed of, what should I call my egg? I haven't got a clue, although I'll probably call it Nathan.)

If you're reading, and about to leave without reviewing, please review! I need to feed my egg child! And also to prove to people that my egg journal is actually something to be proud of! And, if you still won't review, I'll find time to review you if you review me! Promise!