If I Were A Tramp

I'd slowly accumulate bits and pieces of things I found and construct a makeshift home, under a bridge ideally because of the shelter from the elements, and also because I'd pretend to be a troll.
I'd get myself a dog companion. But not a regular dog, one that would be equally as badly off as I. It'd be a ragged little Golden Retriever, with soulful black eyes, and a tail that never stopped swinging side to side. I'd go exploring, making the most of the lack of a permanent home, and seeing as much of the city as I could, and not just the façade London tries to show tourists, but the seedy underbelly of the metropolis also, and become a true expert on this city. I'd be charismatic enough that people would listen to me, and try to control the smell. I wouldn't drink, not even to escape my sorrows, because hey, alcohol is expensive. I could buy a loaf of bread, and have enough to eat for three or four days. I'd put my musical skill to work and earn even a little money, and try to teach my battered little dog a trick or two. But mostly I'd live life as an adventure, as if losing everything was the beginning of my life rather than the end.

But then, these are the words of a boy who has been living under the watchful hawk's-eye stare of his mother for the last 18 years, so maybe I'd just be killed in a bum-fight the first day.