I am confronted by a dead pigeon. Its body hard pressed and flattened to the floor. Its face contorted to a fixed expression of doom. Its guts spread across the road. I sigh. We are one. Its state reflects how I am feeling.
I pass a stranger who takes the time to smile warmly at me. I sneer back and mutter obscenities under my breath. If I could, I’d place a jihad on them.
A small child plays innocently and hands me a flower. I receive the flowery gift and – whilst staring into his innocent eyes – crush it into the floor with much satisfaction, causing the child to reel away in tears. His mother looks on in horror. I spit in her general direction.
No, I haven’t suddenly become French – I have Post-holiday blues. And quite frankly, I’m not a happy bunny. I’m a dead pigeon.
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