I still haven’t won the lottery and this harsh slither of financial reality brings me to an episode that took place a fortnight last Friday.

I’ve always laboured under the impression that if a pigeon relieves themselves directly upon your person, it’s terribly good luck. Ergo you bag 14.6 million squillion spondoolickas; ergo you can kiss goodbye to 3am panics concerning unsupervised Visa activity; ergo you are filthy rich and the world becomes your diamond encrusted playground.

So. Back to a fortnight last Friday. It was a long old day, given the port I’d been tucking into the previous evening. (The German received a right posh crystal decanter for his 30th, hence port is the current tipple of choice in our household.) It was nearly 3pm before I felt ready for solids, so off I went in search of something comforting to eat with a plastic fork.

I didn’t have to go far as Leon is just around the corner. I like it in Leon. They have healthy, tasty, cheap food and pictures of a pretend family smiling benevolently down at you as you tuck into your lunch. I know it’s all the cynical imaginings of a PR person, but it works. I’m such a sucker.

It’s always busy down at Leon. Queuing out the front they were. I sidled up to the end: eyes down, focus, don’t fall over, don’t look too special, don’t breath or sweat port on anyone.

And then…

Aim, FIRE.

Pigeon poo. On my shoulder and alarmingly close to my ear and therefore my skin, people.

Totally gross and more importantly, totally embarrassing. The woman next to me leapt three feet in the air and screeched, ‘Eeewwwww!’ at the top her voice, thus rendering me the helpless focal point of multiple pairs of curious eyes. I love to be centre of attention, but really, this was too much. Thank you very much screeching lady.

I immediately dart into Leon, muttering death to all pigeons. I grab a fistful of napkins, decamp to a table and attempt to remove the messily distributed gift from above. Except it won’t do as I ask. It just spreads, literally multiplying in length and breadth until I’m feeling a bit girly and flappy of hand, and want to screech ‘Eeewwwww!’ myself.

But I don’t because I am a woman of substance and calm. Thus, I march to the counter, order my dinner and march right back out again, sans soiled cardigan and braving the cold.

As I head back to the office, enquiring eyes still boring into my back, I remember with glee that it’s alright, this shit is good luck! So I resolve to buy a lotto ticket. Not just one - I want the National, Euromillions, the works. Gimme, gimme, gimme.

Picture the scene: Saturday night, sweaty paws clutching paper passports to riches.

And then…

Nothing, nada, zilch. Eamonn Holmes did not deliver the good news I wanted. There was only one thing for it, and that was to hit the decanter with renewed resolve.

So let’s be straight here. Next time a bird craps on you, this is not good luck. It is merely disgusting and embarrassing. Someone will make a comment, there will be staring and there will be no friendly hole in the pavement to swallow you up.

Crucially, there will be no cash windfall. But what you can count on is one smug bird and a ruined cardie.