An interest in Egyptology can first afflict you in childhood, but leave you altered for life. Rather like Polio. Those professionals who have been bitten by the 'Egypt bug', and had Egyptology injected malaria-like into their veins usually continue to extol a profound affection for the country throughout their years (unlike Malaria, Egyptology is rarely fatal to physical life, killing instead only various facets of the human inner life and personality).

Like a cheap novelty condom, acquired from a pub toilet vending machine in a priapic haze but destined to forever languish in its owner's wallet, the love of Egyptology comes in many different flavours. A reporter for Egyptastic has interviewed three distinct groups of professional Egyptologists in an attempt to understand this so-called 'love that dare not transliterate its name'.

Our field guide begins with the philologists - or 'the real deal' as they prefer to style themselves. This is the largest sub-genus of Egyptologist, encompassing the majority of the subject's western post-holders. One famous Oxford professor, a noted expert on Egypt, agreed to meet with us over a roast-beef lunch in his college to discuss his own love of the country. With a glass of sherry in hand and misty eyes, he recounted how his first experience in Egypt had convinced him to dedicate his life to the study of the country. "I remember that four-week season as if it were yesterday, despite the fact that 40 years have passed. I was very taken by the perfect, azure-blue sky, the glory of the monuments, and the chance to wear my jodhpurs outside of the boudoir for the first time in my life. The trip was unforgettable. Life-changing, really. I would absolutely love to go back there some time."

This sentiment was reiterated by other philologists we interviewed. All had visited Egypt once or twice as students, were greatly moved, and, since then, have spent decades 'seriously considering returning'. Such trips, however, seem with cruel irony to be prohibited by the very institutions that employ philologists. Their jobs in universities and museums burden them with truly Herculean duties, such as developing theories on how the long-dead civilisation once functioned and inspiring future generations of Egyptologists. All of this even before one factors in the average six hours of teaching per year that their employers insist must be undertaken directly rather than defrayed via willing postgraduates.

Whilst it is born from direct contact, this group's love of Egypt appears destined to develop only at a distance. To them, Egypt itself is like a teenage holiday romance, of whom they own an increasingly out-of-date and dog-eared Polaroid, which nevertheless serves its purpose adequately as both catalyst and focus for frequent prolonged sessions of onanistic fantasy. To continue an already slightly strained analogy, philologists are like self-deluding middle aged virgins. They refuse to allow the plain fact - that their one brief fumbling with young mistress Egypt's bra strap took place in the increasingly distant past - to prevent them from seeing themselves as (potentially) lovers of Casanova-like ability.

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