The cullinary conversation in the pub last night turned to eggs. Why? Haven't a clue. Roberts, I can now declare, is an egg connoisseur.
"I buy 12 ordinary eggs, and six large free-range eggs. The six large free-range eggs are MY eggs. The others I use to make batter or put in stuff," he tells us.
Withers and I found this a wee bit obsessive not to say chilling. One wonders what would happen if someone broke into the kitchen and used one of HIS eggs to make a toad in the hole for instance. They might end up in the Roberts torture dungeon. Perhaps that's why none of us have been invited to his house. He's still hiding the bodies behind the wall in his kitchen. This is why he spends all his time off DIYing in the house... sorry, getting carried away.
My preference for lovely runny eggs is to bring them to the boil in water, keep it boiling for three or four minutes, plunge them in cold water so they cool down, then peel them and crack them open over bacon or ham or whatever.
Later, taking the taxi option home, the driver revealed a startling fact. "Bruce Forsyth died this afternoon," he told me.
Well, I'm a journalist and we normally know things like this (particularly as someone is probably celebrating the fact they picked him for the Echo Dead Pool lottery).
"No!" I exclaimed.
"Yeh. Do you know how old he was?"
I thought deeply. "68?"
It suddenly dawns on me that I have been stitched up royally. My own fault for not watching Play Your Cards Right.
Strange man, the taxi driver. It costs me a fiver to get home and I give him a tenner. Then he declares he has no change - not even a fiver. Whoever heard of a taxi driver with no money for change?
I scrabble around and come up with a handful of coins. "That'll do" he says.
"Cheers mate," I say, making a sharp exit before he changes his mind. Taxi home = about £1.80.
Anyway, thinking about what to cook but Scooby, Pete and Gareth - three mates of mine - are meeting at the house for their usual Thursday boys night out. They twist my arm and I end up at the local.
Scooby, generously, supplies me with a packet of very tasty pork scratchings for the journey.
Two pints later, and back at home, I settle for two thick, crusty pieces of French bread, coated in peanut butter. It's a safer option than setting the kitchen alight.