The Egg

This is the story she told the Master of Mysteries: “It was my second year at university at the start of the summer term, a night in May. I had a nice Thursday evening out with friends, most of which was spent in a student faculty building listening to a band called The Egg.

I was with a clever person called James (what is in a name?) and we experienced the music in the best possible way, which was psychedelically transcendentally. This involved one of us empathetically playing the guitar (him) while the other was drumming (me).

My boyfriend and our male friends had, at a comparable point in the evening, embarked upon what I later found out to be THE most debauched party imaginable then, courtesy of a fairly well known homosexual history tutor from a neighbouring college.

“Bloody hell and buggery” was the first definition to arise when I was later given the low-down, and it was related that the host regularly dosed his guests with LSD in order to ensure that his annual party was a weird and lively, corrupt sort of affair; the stuff of almost legend. Or so I heard

My own very enjoyable evening of musical appreciation was drawn to a close before midnight, after which I returned alone to my room at college.

I had not been back long before I was surprised by a late visit from another of the very bright and interesting fellows, this one called Benedict, who had been looking for my boyfriend but by a curious twist of fate found me instead. As it happened, the meeting was serendipitous and Benedict’s company was something of a blessing.  He even rolled a most wonderful joint and, in keeping with the spirit of peace, we listened to almost the entire collection of Bob Marley’s greatest hits.

Benedict was exceedingly clever and I enjoyed his visit. We related well and it seemed to me that everything we did not say made perfect sense. I also had the distinct impression that something was going to happen, that it was inevitable as one follows two. What that something would be, I could not have said, although I felt I knew.

Suffice it to say that Benedict left my room shortly after the joint had been smoked and Bob Marley left us. He had been there for just over an hour and during this time I had become supremely and irrevocably high.