Forget the Easter Bunny...

Not-Roger's eggs - and yes I've already eaten one!

When it comes to folklore figures leaving little surprises you can forget Father Christmas, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny. In my house we get visits from Not-Roger The Egg Man.

Like Santa, Not-Roger comes at a regular time. In Santa’s case it’s Christmas Eve and in Not-Roger’s case it’s Thursday evenings.

Like Santa, we leave a little offering out when we know he’s coming. In Santa’s case it’s a mince pie and carrot for Rudolph, and in Not-Roger’s case it’s £1.25 and an empty egg box.




We always get something in return. In Santa’s case, a bite is taken from the mince pie and presents are left under the tree. In Not-Roger’s case the money is spirited away and a box of fresh free-range eggs is left on our doorstep.

And like Santa, we have never actually met Not-Roger. With the first, we strain to catch the faint jingling of bells or a festive "ho ho ho", and with the second we might hear the sound of footsteps or an engine starting in the road outside.

This arrangement is, admittedly, a little bit odd. And made odder still by the fact that we don’t even know the egg man’s name. Hence Not-Roger, because we know he’s definitely not called Roger.

It came about when we first moved into our house a year ago and met our neighbours, who were keen to tell us about a local farmer who delivered free range eggs to the neighbourhood. They gave us a flier, which we promptly lost (hey - we’d just moved house!), but not before noting down the mobile phone number.

Like children writing to Father Christmas we sent a text to the farmer asking if we could please have some eggs (we’ve been very good this year). And we opened the message with a cheery "hi Roger" because we thought that was the name on the flier.

On Thursday night the eggs magically appeared, and these were good eggs – huge with bright orange yolks. They tasted amazing.

Then on Friday our neighbour popped round to say she’d had a worried call from the egg man, who had been confused by the random request from strangers addressing him as Roger (which was, in fact, not his name).

She explained to him that we’d just moved in and she told us his name. Which, of course, we promptly forgot.

Again.

So now we’ve settled into this routine – every Wednesday we send Not-Roger a text (being careful to open it simply with "hi" rather than using a name) telling him whether we’d like six or twelve eggs.

At £1.25 for half a dozen and £2.50 for a dozen they leave egg on the face of all the major supermarkets.And on Thursday night they magically appear on the doorstep.

Whether you like them boiled or fried, if you get them free range from a local farmer you’re bound to be satisfied. Not-Roger’s eggs are always big and colourful and super-fresh for poaching, and if you put them to the taste test then supermarket eggs pale in comparison.

Sometimes I wonder whether we’ll ever meet Not-Roger – or learn his real name. Part of me wants to hide by the door one night, like a kid hoping to get a glimpse of Santa. But the other part of me thinks our quirky arrangement just makes the whole thing that little bit more fun.

After all, if you actually met Santa, would he still be quite as magical?