One rainy day I am surrounded by a growing crowd who are under the impression that I can fly. It seems that a dreadful mistake has been made: the local paper has printed an article about a gentleman who really does have this enviable talent, but they have put my photograph above the article.
I am unsure about how the newspaper came to have a picture of me, but that is the least of my worries, faced, as I am, with this heckling crowd of strangers. I protest, but the crowd will give no quarter until I show them my incredible powers.
At last, I give in to them, and stand, flapping my arms and jumping as high as I can into the damp air. This goes on for some time, and I become increasingly frightened that the now disenchanted crowd will attack me, believing me to be a self-promoting charlatan. But in the end they straggle off, muttering.
Thanking my lucky stars, I rush home, too upset to continue my shopping. That evening, alone, I once again try to fly. It proves to be a futile exercise, but addictive. Night after night I stand on my roof, flapping my arms and making small jumps on the tiles.
Try as I might, I never manage to get airborne.