I grabbed the iguana and shoved it in my pants. I had already decided to name him Jerry. Jerry didn’t like being shoplifted. As I tried to stroll nonchalantly out of the shop, my pants started wriggling: “For God’s sake Jerry, just chill.” Shouting at my crotch wasn’t even the worst mistake I made that day. The guy behind the counter looked up and just sighed defeatedly, his greasy hair dipping into his bowl of spaghetti hoops. “Look buddy, please take your weird shit outside.” I’m pretty sure he muttered, ” I hate my life so much,” but I couldn’t be sure as I hightailed it out of there. Jerry got a few dirty looks on the bus home but he took less notice of them than a fat-chick-whose-boyfriend-just-left-her eating a rasher and jaffa cake McFlurry. He’s pretty cool like that. When we got home, we just chilled for a while and smoked some weed. Well, I did, he just kind of sat there on the couch, watching Cops until his eyes glazed over. If you take just one thing away from this, it’s that an iguana’s leg will not grow back if you cut it off with a scissors. Seriously, don’t listen to the Internet, he’s lying. My friends have taken to calling Jerry “Donald Stump”. I know he’d be laughing if he could. He’s pretty chill that...