I went down to the bank to check up on my monkey market fund, but they didn't have enough fresh bananas at the central office so the gibbons (who operate the switchboard, of course) were striking. One of them handed me a leaflet. It was tasty, but a little tough, so I smacked his bottom and pranced away.

Later, I regretted my heinous crimes, and travelled to the Mountains of the World's Edge to seek the wisdom of a little troll with a big attitude who lives in them there mountains. He put the hose on me, so I regrouped. I squatted among the squatters and pondered. Finally, I decided to use my Hair on him. I gathered twigs and berries, and mortared and pestled my way to a Hair cream that could kill at twenty paces. I oiled up, dreamily anticipating the sweet satisfaction of laying bare his larder. Soon, the time was ripe and I made my move.

While I had been sowing my wild oats, however, he had not been idle. Flapjacks and veal cutlets pelted me from every side, narrowly missing my Hair. One ill-fated hit could have sent years of work to an early grave. But I persevered, until at last I could safely give up.

I look back fondly on that period of my life, the soi-disant "Dainty Years", whenever I am in a French frame of mind. The little troll is still looking for me, though, and I will have to change my name and move again in a few weeks.