I was flagged down outside Greggs in the town centre today by a hippy chick with beads in her hair, ripped jeans, open-toed sandals and a blue RSPCA polo shirt. She saw me from a good 50 yards away and started waving her clipboard and grinning inanely at me.
I did the obligatory look over my shoulder, look back at her, point at myself whilst mouthing ‘me?’ routine, sighed and headed towards her.
She bounced into the air and landed her face not three inches from mine, close enough to smell the quorn nuggets on her breath.
“Hiya! Are you OK?! My name’s Casa…”
I held up my finger to her face and gently touched it to her lips, dragging it slowly from one side of her mouth to the other like a stoned metronome. Then without breaking eye contact once, I leant in even closer to her face and said softly,
“When I was nine, I beat a puppy to death with a spade and threw it onto the roof of my neighbour’s conservatory.”
Then I walked away, but not before screaming “RARGHH!” at some nearby pigeons.