Living as I do in south London, and in the vicinity of a residential care home, happening upon the occasional oddball is something I've become used to in my time as a city girl. And while I'm sure I haven't seen it all yet, when it comes to frankly bizarre behaviour, the bar was raised spectacularly last week, as I walked home along my street.

Ambling along in the dark, iPod plugged in, I spotted a couple walking ahead of me. The man was clutching something large and square, and they were both talking in fairly measured tones in a language I could sadly not understand. I say 'sadly', because...

...the man suddenly stopped and, from what I could see, appeared to be rummaging around in a bin outside a house. Disgusting, obviously, but nothing new. Then, when I drew closer, I heard shouting. The iPod was swiftly turned off because, y'know, I'm nosy like that. And drawing closer still, the man actually wasn't ferreting about in someone's trash. The large square thing he was carrying was in fact a pizza box. It contained a steaming hot, mouth-wateringly tasty-smelling and, I assume, just-bought pizza. But, as yummy as it smelled to me, it clearly wasn't cutting the mustard with the man. Because he was shouting.

At the pizza.

Shouting at the pizza.

The girl he was with had walked further on, and was turning back to look at him, with a decidedly disinterested expression. Then she continued walking, while the poor innocent Italian dish suffered a further verbal tirade.

That's the whole story really, as I cannot for the life of me begin to fathom what drives someone who appears to be, in all other respects, perfectly normal, to have a raging hissy fit at a fast food dish in a pitch dark residential street.

I only wish I knew what language he was screaming in, so I could learn its equivalent for "Quit bitching, whatever's wrong with your pizza, I'm going home to an empty fridge"