I tore the leg off a pigeon

I tore the leg off a pigeon. Rest assured, it wasn't planned – it's just one of those things that, try as you may, you can't prevent. Some people argue that one couldn't possibly just tear off a pigeon's leg with such accidental grace (we call these people "New Zealanders", people who believe legs are only for winter situations); such people have clearly never been in my shoes. Size 10 "Evos" a cheap, rip-off brand purchased for a pittance from T.K Maxx, more or less designed for tearing the legs off of small animals. Things haven't been quite the same ever since. The neighbours refuse to talk to me, the Queen's face is on back-to-front and my rucksack is filled with paint. Oh, I've tried to pour it away, but it just keeps on coming back in greater quantities and increasingly brighter colours – I'm not sure how much more of it I can take.

Maybe I'm just a pessimist. Some might say the bag is half-empty, though I believe the bag is half-full. Some days it's all I can think about. I'm wandering through town, trying to ignore the Himalayan Musk trickling down my back. A man in the street cries out "Sir! Excuse me, Sir! Three bananas for a pound!" but I don't hear them. My jazz shoes are on backwards and I'm walking straight into the wall. I'm flushed with embarrassment and my hands turn to jam. Jam-handed, I brush myself off and stain my best shirt with Bramble & Bramley. Paint on my trousers and jam on my chest, I'm ready to take on the world. I've got all the moves and I'm not sharing them with anybody. I tear the leg off another pigeon and my trousers fill with ham. Some people never learn.