i've never had a fight. never ever. some would say it's because i am so charming no-one would ever want to punch me.
some would say my intellect is so great that i could see the potential violence approaching from such a distance, and i can easily avoid it. sometimes from as far away as 24 hours.
some would say it's because if you lay down and allow someone to pummel seven shades of fecal matter out of you, it's not called 'fighting' it's called 'being a pussy'.
a man looked at me funny once, but i gave him my iPod and five-hundred pounds and that seemed to calm him down. he looked a little confused at first, but then gathered up his blanket, punnet of strawberries and penguin classics copy of bonjour tristesse and ran off to catch a tram. phew! disaster averted. i left the park with my dignity intact (bar a tiny urine stain on my trousers).
and then there was that time when louisa whitehead put a bit of lettuce on my head when we were on the school bus. that could've turned really nasty (she was built like a cage-fighter), but luckily my sobbing and mewling sounds were enough to make her say she was "getting off at the next stop anyway."
if i were in a fight, i reckon there's only one way it would go. obviously i would kick their arse. i'd destroy their bones, mangle their face and leave them a sad sack of leathery crumble. they would slither home on a lubricant of their own vomit, begging for their mother to come and lick their wounds.
or it would go like this: