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‘Careful now! These threads are a might fragile.’ Bertie balanced precariously on his crutch as he fended off Garan’s attempts to dust off his coat. He patted his pockets, making sure his various objects of value were still safely within. When he reached the side pocket in which he’d stashed his morning roll from the bakery, he reached into it. Disappointment met his fingers as they curled about a rather mashed bun. He pulled it out, noting the ground in pocket rubble covering the flattened surface.
‘Well, there goes my breakfast, boys.’ The roll crumbled apart and rolled off his palm in several chunks. ‘I guess it’s nothing but pigeon grub now,’ he finished, eyeing the trio of bedraggled looking birds that were eyeing him in return as they crept closer to the bready treat.
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