Middle Class Dilemmas No. 1

I was shopping for baking ingredients last night at my local Tesco Metro (is that tautological? Is Tesco Metro, by its very existence, 'local'? I digress). I needed eggs. I'm militant about buying at least free range eggs, as I used to live up the road from a battery hen farm. I went into one of the 'sheds' once, and it's every bit as grim as you'd think. I think everyone in Britain should be taken to one on a school trip when they're about ten, and then no-one would ever buy battery eggs again and the whole business would collapse.

Usually, the Metropolitan Tesco which I frequent offers a number of different options - free range (large and medium), barn-roasted, or some such, and then, of course, Evil Eggs. I bowl in; grab my six-pack of Happy-Go-Lucky Eggs; wait half an hour whilst the one member of staff on the checkout checks me out (the fact that Streatham Tesco never has more than one checkout staffer, no matter what the time or day, always infuriates me) and then I leave, calm down, and get on with my life.

But last night, disaster struck. There were no six-packs of Happy Eggs. My choices were practically Sophian:
Either - buy a box of ten Happy Eggs - and suffer the middle class angst of knowing that at least half of them would end up in the bin. (FOOD WASTE! How dare you, you childless, freaky singlehousehold person, contribute more to landfill? You're already sucking up God knows how much extra of Mother Earth's resources than proper, family people do in terms of electricity, gas and probably oxygen!)
Or - buy a box of six Death Eggs. Which I'll use all of, but, you know, I might be haunted by visions of battery hens shaking their beaks at me, more in disappointment than in sorrow.

There was nothing for it - with both a heavy sigh and a heavy heart, I opted for the six-pack of Batteried-to-Death Eggs. To whichever unfortunate fowl it was that laid them, I can only apologise.