There Were Eggshells

‘There were eggshells in the omelette, so I did what any self-respecting chef would do: I resigned from my job, bought a new car, asked my wife for a divorce, sold my collection of sixteenth-century cookery books, booked a holiday in Croatia, got into a fight with an old friend in a bar at midnight, wrote angry letters to the press, tried to mend my motorcycle, rang my brother for the first time in fifteen years, quit smoking and started again, moved around the furniture in my flat, starting reading a different newspaper, dropped my phone into a public toilet, got fined for speeding twice, went swimming in the sea, broke the little finger on my left hand and started listening to South American folk music.’

According to a source I cannot reveal (because, quite frankly, I can’t remember who it was) this is the opening sentence to a new novel by the Andorran novelist Oa Aayorta. If so, I must confess to being a little confused; maybe even disappointed. I thought, as reported here, that Aayorta wasn’t writing a new novel at all, but was engaged in a spot of rampant marginalia? This sentence suggests, instead, that he has returned to ground covered by previous novels, The Everlasting Evening and The Endless Winter Night, both of which featured the same food-loving protagonist.

For all this, I like the sentence…

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