On the morning of my eighteenth birthday, my father presented me with a magnificent bird, whose plumage would shame a sapphire. He knew that I had always adored birds, and had yearned for one of my very own. Enraptured, I opened the door to his golden cage and gently took him out. His sharp little claws dug into my fingers, and he clicked his beak with approval. There was such a curious expression in those beady black eyes, as though he were plotting something devious. The family were wild with curiosity, and so they all gathered around as I held him aloft on my hand. Alas, it transpired that he did not care for this hustle and bustle of jostling relatives, not one bit! With an enraged squawk, he dug those sharp little claws so deeply into my finger that he snipped it clean off, and began to fly round and round the room with it. The carpet was ruined. When at last he had been lured down by a piece of pineapple, we were able to retrieve my finger from his grip and rush to the doctor. And that, my dears, is how I got my backwards finger.
(Part of an assignment for my Creative Writing Course – 200 words on a lead up to a doctor’s visit)