The Perfect Egg

I am absolutely eggstatic to share with you my foolproof recipe for soft-boiled eggs, aka the first result on google search.

You're welcome.

Perfect for a breakfast, lunch, or a rainy night in. 
Instant curry and leftover rice not included.

Way To His Heart Series: The Perfect Soft-Boiled Egg
1. Take a little pot and heat more than enough water to cover your eggs on their side. 

2. Wash your eggs while that's boiling (newbies: maximum heat, lid on). 

3. When your water is at a full boil (newbies: spilling over the sides) lower your eggs in with a strainer. Or with as much gentle loving care as possible without steaming yourself. 

Goodbye, my children!

4. Your eggs may crack up a little if you told them a joke If they came fresh out of the fridge due to the temperature difference (hello heated soda can experiment in year 7). This makes them easier to peel later on, but by all means leave them out at room temperature for longer if you prefer intact shells (you don't).

5. Lower the heat so that your water is making the tiniest bubbles (I turned my setting to 7/12 on my electric stove). Replace the lid and let your eggs cook for five and a half minutes. 

6. Fish them out with a strainer. Run cold water over your eggs until they're cool to touch. 

7. Peel off the shell. Realise how right I was about #4. 

8. Sprinkle on salt. Savour this glorious eggsperience. 

And there you have it, directions to heaven, all in an eggshell.

2.0

'Most men die at twenty-five, but aren't buried until they're seventy.'

In my second year of medical school, I made a conscious effort to turn my brain off. To keep things short, it was probably a rebellion thing, having been a model student/nerd for all the prior years. I'm not sure why I'm telling you this in public, but then again this space should be desolate considering the length of my hiatus. 

I just read somewhere about a small study concluding that we are happiest doing mindless tasks, but there surely is more about life beyond online shopping and going to work without my brain. In no way do I intend to drop everything and backpack around South America, but I'd like to have more to derive happiness from than just a difficult drip in the convoluted veins of an oedematous granny. 

It has been an embarrassingly long time since I have read (frantically scrolling through Wikipedia because I have no idea what on earth is wrong with my patient hardly qualifies). I brought home with me Murakami's Norweign Wood today - it was shelved under 'Literature' - as my first step to becoming a person of culture. 

And while we are on the topic, perhaps I ought also to invest in some new glasses from Oliver Peoples to look the part.  

 

 

The dying patient

Lately I often find myself complaining about work, whining about the long hours, and generally feeling very sorry for myself and my lifeless job.

Because sometimes I forget that I encounter life and death on a daily basis.

Induction

Between people-watching from the wall-mounted mirror in one of my favourite cafes and taking a slow slp of my flat white, I decided today was one of those times to look back and not forward. It is far more pleasant to reflect when what lies ahead is work tomorrow (and having to remove your turquoise manicure for it). 

The first month of employment has been rather pleasant. My senior colleagues have been extremely lenient and tolerant of my various antics, and the staff have all been wonderful to work with - a lovely surprise taking into account the horror stories of bitchy nurses and my track history with species of the same gender. 

I wish I could remember all of my patients, but we usually only recall the mortalities, and the ones with angry relatives. Then there are the idiots who make for interesting stories, like the young man who needed orchioplasty because he had strangled both his testicles by forcing all of his external genitalia through a 1cm thick metal ring/sex toy that we could not break without snipping off bits of him. And of course there was the drug addict with COPD on long term oxygen admitted for a facial burn because his oxygen supply caught fire and blew up in his face when he was sneaking a smoke.

Time has been slipping away through my latex glove-cladded fingers like medical knowledge through the sieve that is my brain. It was only when I changed a suprapubic catheter again for the same patient did I notice an entire month had passed. Overall though, and I may or may not be writing behind rose-tinted eye shields, there has been more good than bad, and I definitely feel a lot more competent than I first started. Now, if only I could remember where I last left my pager... .