When I decapitated my breakfast egg a yellow
chicken popped out pecked at my toast and
insisted on nestling under my left armpit and
I looked like a man with a broken arm that
had grown back wrongly. After a few weeks
it grew so bold that it followed me around in
narrow streets; even chased away nosy dogs
Six months old it ended in my pot kept some of
its feathers through to prove that there is such a
thing as a free lunch.