Pardon me. My ear is full of milk.

Horrid things, foodstuffs. At least as I regard them now. Halfway rotten already, it seemed to him. Nurse is encouraging, of course. She finds a knife tough enough to cut my sausages into what she deems to be friendlier sections and pops onesuch on the end of a fork that I swear wasn't on the tray. And when I refuse that she grabs the offered tidbit with her own gob and mimes a big oh, this is LOVELY overactment as she forces the thing down.

Determined to repeat the example until I succumb, the fork swoops again like a Stuka with a baleful eyeful of a roadful of slow-moving refugees, only to stop, poised in the air an inch or two above the elected next bit of...Well. Long story short, there was a vein protruding from the misfortunate morsel of presumed porkmeat, which, needless to say, never made it to Nurse's quivering lips. Although, oddly, the half-whispered name Terry did, even as the fork clattered to the floor.

The egg was as bad.