The Kur's Egg is not, technically, an egg. I should probably say that upfront. It is egg-shaped. It fits in the palm of your hand in the way an egg does. It is also the most expensive thing I have ever held that is named after something a chicken does unassisted.
I was not looking for an egg. I was looking for a reason to put my phone down for twenty minutes without having a feeling about it. This is a problem I have mentioned before. It hasn't gone away.
Here is what the Kur's Egg does that I was not prepared for: it gets warm. Not hot. Warm, in the specific way a cup of tea is warm after you have forgotten about it for ten minutes. You hold it, and it is warm. This is a sensory experience I had quietly filed under things that happen to other people.
It also — and I want to be precise here — pulses. Not buzzes. Pulses. There is a difference, and the difference is, broadly, the point. It is the one that made me stop what I was doing and say, in the flat voice of a woman being mildly inconvenienced, "oh."
I don't know what I was expecting. Nothing, probably. That is the baseline for eggs.
It costs £130. I notice I wrote that and then left a space, as if something clever were going to arrive. It hasn't. £130 is what it costs. You get a warm egg that pulses.
The huxi people — whose existence I am contractually obliged to acknowledge — give you sixty days to decide you don't want it. Not sixty days of store credit. Sixty days of the actual money back. This is unusual enough that I feel I have to say it twice. The actual money. Back.
I have not returned mine.
— Charlie
adventures with huxi →
