I hate pigeons.
I hate the way that they refuse to respect me - when I'm walking or driving or cycling, they don't fly out of my way in fear as they should, but saunter in front of me so that I have to avoid them.
I hate the fact that they so adamently refuse to die, wandering around London with gangrenous stumps instead of legs, or bulbous puss-filled sores, as if it didn't hinder them in the least.
I hate the fact that they wake me up in the morning making a sound like someone having bad sex who can't be bothered anymore to try to sound like they enjoy it.
At a previous address I lived next door to an old lady who was obsessed by her hatred of pigeons. She had several nesting in her roof and every day she powerhosed them away before scrubbing at the encrusted faeces on the walls and patio. Whenever I spoke to her (as infrequently as I could manage) the subject was pigeons and how passionately she hated them. I thought she was just a mad old woman, but recently, I think I am turning into her.
I was furious to find that two of the winged vermin had decided to start living on my balcony. I had visions of opening my balcony door to an ocean of pigeon poo and rabid pecking each morning, with an ever increasing chorus of their cheap porn moanings.
I followed my usual morning ritual of opening my balcony door cursing them them and then glaring at them angrily as they perched on the opposite building, clearly ready to return the moment I stepped back inside. I investigated the balcony and discovered that behind a deckchair propped against the wall, they had begun to build a nest. In my rage, I lifted my deckchair away and exposed the nest to the elements. Ha! That'll get rid of them! Hahahaha!
I closed the door and got that sinking feeling you get when you have been very, very bad.
That little nest was made up of a pathetic little collection of twigs that they had been gathering for weeks (there isn't much flora in Peckham). They had begun to fashion it into a little circle.
There were two of them. One must have been the mummy and one must have been the daddy. They were husband and wife pigeons, trying to build a home for themselves because they were ready to have some babies. They were young and in love and this was a very special time for them. Then I, like a big devlish brute, trampled on their world because of my own selfish needs.
They must have flown back this morning to find that their home had been destroyed. "Oh Peter, our home! Our lovely home that we made ourselves! Where will our babies be born? Our beautiful unborn pigeon babies - the fruit of our innocent pigeon love!" Says the mummy pigeon. "We must accept our fate Pam. We are only pigeons. We are the least loved of all the flying animals. Just pigeons Pam, just pigeons. We are lucky we still have 3 stumps between us. We deserve no better." replied the daddy pigeon.
I heard them this morning. Was it just me, or was their cooing more like weeping?
4 comments:
As I started to read this I was thinkng "This is another of those, I am glad I no longer live in London moments, yucky pigeons with stumpy pussy legs". By the end I was wanting to weep for poor pam and peter. poor pigeons.
should i be laughing this hard at your depravity?
the comforting thing is 1. you so anthropocentrised the two pidgeons that even i felt sorry for them and 2. a conscience like that is a sign of great humanity.
you should blog more often.
No no no no. The guilt is just a temporary feeling. They are pigeons, not people. It's like setting mouse traps: you hate yourself when you find one with its head at a funny angle, its body strangely limp and with black glassy eyes permanently staring up at you. But then you remember how you put your hand in the bread bin and got mouse instead. Or how you left your handbag on a kitchen chair, picked it up 2 hours later and the contents fell out through a large chewed whole in the bottom. Mice are not for kitchens. Pigeons are not for balconies.
man I needed a laugh and that was genius, you should be a comedy writer, you and the hunt lady should duo together and write strange and warped plays about pigeons and mice.
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