It's a mere waste of eggs and could be considered chick abortion or something.
Well, at least that was my excuse. In truth, as a fat kid, I wasn't quick enough to win any sort of race never mind a race that required me to keep my balance and not kill a baby chicken in the process. Keen to explore ways out of boredom of the dreaded sukaneka games, I took pleasure in cracking eggs. I'd drop them. I'd throw them. Anything to hear that crack and subsequent splat. I even taught myself to cook so that I'd be given permission to crack eggs at cooking class (egg fried race being the obvious favourite).
Fast-forward 20 years or so and childhood memories started coming back to me one evening.
Don't forget to get the milk for tomorrow. Oh, and eggs. A whole tray of 30 should do...
I was used to getting stuff for the house on the way back from work. My other half is also normally sensible when making her last-minute requests - always bearing in mind that anything ordered would need to fit in the glovebox or in a bag strapped on to the helmet hook. This time though, I was challenged. A whole tray of 30 eggs? On a Vespa?
That was like mass-baby-chicken-suicide or something.
But then, I was reminded that my Vespa was only recently accessorised with a shiny chrome rear rack.
Now's a good time to give it a go?
My wife might have just said, show me what you spent your 30 on, eh? She didn't say that but I still understood. So, with the help of a couple of straps and some curious looking eyes on me, my entire cargo and I eventually made it home safely. If only I had the Vespa when I was a kid...