She Wore a Rasberry

The Thames was eaten up by two cackling witch banks this time last Thursday. I stood, glum as usual, on a pedestal made from four oak columns and watched the glorious bleak liquid wash away. It was an inspiring sight, I tell you! Immediately afterwards, I ran a forty-minute mile (as I was in England) and arrived by legs at Central Park™, where I stopped in for quickie and returned to the slippery and flat slopes of Thornbury with the aforementioned cup of steaming brown. Soon I found myself, after playing a brief game of solo hide and seek, in the black and white district and decided to stop in on my old. Opening the door a crack, I transformed back into a human to enter and pay my respects to the lumpy creature who will take over my body when I reach forty. It, however, was too busy juggling two wildlife channels to notice me, and I slipped quietly outside again. Picking myself up off the ground and cursing the bastard who spilt ten gallons of Pepsi Max™ on the stairs, I left, humbled, and made my way to the next paragraph.

As it was that time of the month, I headed across town to my estranged wife, who I ignored by pretending to be interested in my 8 year old daughter's blabberings about the oh-so interesting goings on of the passed few years, and gave her a letter. She sighed and put the "H" in the waste paper bin, from which a familiar stench was emanating, and I jogged out of sight.

Four years later, I decided to become a man in prison who liked birds.

Viva la Prince!