A present from above

I took lunch a little bit earlier today because I needed to go to the bank before meeting Yaz for our usual coffee+rant. The reason for my bank-jaunt was to deposit the cheque that Actimel sent me for trying their probiotic monkey-spunk drink for a week; little do they know that I'm a regular drinker, and I simply lulled them into believing that I was sampling its delights! Ha! £8.12p up - quids in.

Going to the bank meant that I walked a different route down to Hammersmith, one that took me beneath the underground bridges, which may sound like an oxymoron, but seeing as a significant part of the underground is actually overground, it's not. Trust me on this.

Anyway, it was as I was walking beneath the first of said bridges that a train rumbled over, a couple of amorous pidgeons were dislodged from their nooky nook, and I felt what I believed was something decidely liquidous slam into my head.

Lets back up a few years.

When I was a kid, I experienced a rather unfortunate spate of incidents in which various birds began crapping on my head. This occurred with alarming regularity. The first incident took place while we were on holiday in Cornwall once. There I was sitting on a harbour wall in a delightful little fishing village when the next thing I know a seagull's shat on my head (and let me tell you, those monsters don't do things by halves). Thus began a rather, well, crap period in my life; it didn't matter where we were or what we were doing - I'd end up with crap in my hair. I could quite happily be standing there, then next thing I know my head felt damp, and Mum would be tutting and reaching into her bag for a pocket-sized packet of tissues. I distinctly remember on one occasion standing in the square in the middle of Ealing Broadway with a packet of crisps in one hand and runny shite in the other. Those pidgeons had clearly been watching 'The Damn Busters' through Dixons' front window, and by god their aim was good. It wasn't just the bigger birds either - the sparrows were obviously watching all their larger friends having a go and decided it'd be fun to join in too; on the plus side, sparrow crap has a slightly runnier consistency than pidgeon poo, and is much easier to dab off with a tissue.

Regardless of the size of the winged assailant, however, if you've never been crapped on by a bird let me tell you that there's something incredibly unsettling by the whole thing. It's like being mugged by Teddy Ruxpin - you simply can't believe it's happened, and you don't want to acknowledge it. You just stand there, with shat in your hair, as shock begins to set in. Every single thought leaves your brain aside from the base instinct to GET IT OFF!

Even today I cannot let a bird fly over my head without either a) trying to move out of its targetting zone, or b) running a hand over my head to check for shit. Which is probably a bad move because if you have been hit you've then got shit on your hand and in you hair, and the only thing to do then is stand there and cry until a random stranger takes you into Boots the Chemist to help wash it out.

On the plus side, there is the old wives tale that a bird shatting on your head brings you seven years good luck. By that reckoning I'm still good for another 37 years or so.

Anyway, I digress - back to today. So yes, the tube went overhead, the humping pidgeons flew off, and I was sure I felt something land in my hair. Good grief, I thought (in the style of Charlie Brown), what do I do now? Run back to the office and shower it off, or slick it back 'Something about Mary'-stylee, deposit my cheque and go on to coffee as if nothing has happened? I decided that my plan of action would be determined by the amount of shat/lusty-pidgeon jam that had been deposited, and I quickly set about rubbing my hand over my head like a special.

Surprise, surprise, though… there was nothing there! Hurrah! I almost punched the air in celebration. It was nothing but a phantom shat - phew!

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I bought The Last Kiss on DVD the other day. As regular readers might recall, I thoroughly enjoyed this film when I saw it at the cinema last year, although it stirred up quite a debate when Jo and I engaged in a post-screening analysis and she referred to me as "perfect husband material" when in fact I wanted to be seen as "lovable bad boy."

To be honest, I thought of this movie as more of a guys film; yes, it deals with romantic themes, but at its core it's all about blokes treatin' 'em mean, not so much to keep their ladies keen, but rather to dump them and shrug off any and all adult responsibilities (raar!). I do believe, however, that the promotional push for the DVD release does not agree with my point of view, as a leaflet within offered me the chance to indulge in some rather stunning new nail products.

Which presents something of a choice: do I go for the cuticle repair treatment, or a sassy french manicure?