I have this thing about statues.

I just love all these gargoyles and animals standing guard on the threshold of churches or old mansions. My best stone-buddy is actually the left lion on the staircase leading to the townhouse. I used to ride this old lazy bum when I was five, shouting Yippeeeees at the peasants passing by. Until one day some mayor's assistant busted me...

"Now look at this ! he said, grabbing me arm and shaking. What do you think you are doing here kid? This place is no playground!"

"Lemme go lemme go! The lion's my friend, just ask him, he's ok with that, c'mon lemme go!"

And the more I tried to get away, the more it hurted, for the bastard was tightening it's grasp on my arm, nearly crushing it.

"We're gonna see about that punk. You, me, and your parents..."

By the time we got home, I was crying. The man from the townhouse complained about my bad education, the lack of respect I had had when speaking to him and stuff like that. I had a bruise on me arm, but nobody paid much attention.

The next morning, I was having breakfast with my dad. He went out to check the mail, and came back with the morning paper. I was looking at the front page when daddy opened it.

"Oh God...", he said.

I said "Oh yeah!"

I have this thing about statues.