Excuse me sir

While walking through the food market in Brighton, a woman walking towards me said, bold as brass, “hey love, do I have bird shit in my hair?”

I looked at her, quite an old dear, with pulled back white hair, scrubbing a bit of tissue at her scalp like a squirrel.

My initial image of a large dollop of black and white goo seeping down the side of her face, like some kind of aged adult movie star, was instantly dashed. Couldn't see nowt from where I was standing.

“A pigeon just got me, I'm sure he did.”

“Well let's have a look then.” I started delving into this strange woman's hair. Brittle, platinum course hair, offering itself to my eyes. “You've got the wrong hair for it,” I said. "You wouldn't see it if he had!"

“Yes but I swear he got me.”

I had another swoop, burrowing like a hungry badger into her vulnerable mane. I could see nothing but the trace of a previous hair colouring.

“Nope, can't see any bird shit, love.”

“Ok, well thanks anyway.” And off she went. Like that. Out of my life forever.