I can’t believe it’s that time again
I can’t believe it’s that time again. The time where I spend months of frustrated control freakishness trying to dissuade pigeons from nesting on the fire escape outside my bedroom window. I don’t like to be inhospitable but I also don’t like being woken up by incessant cooing and having my fire escape covered in poop. Generally speaking, my tactics of dissuasion consist of banging on the window, or opening it and clapping loudly if the banging is insufficient. In previous years the big fat wood pigeons (who give off an aura of stupidity but are actually impressive in their continuity of purpose) have usually gratified me by at least flying off to a neighbouring roof for half an hour or so before returning. This morning, however, I was roused from sleep by some very close-at-hand hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo-ing and leapt from my bed to see who was responsible and where exactly they were. Two scruffy old city pigeons were sitting on a terracotta pot each, regarding me balefully as I glared at them through the window. I banged on the glass, rattled the window in its frame, slid it open with an almighty clatter and clapped piercingly at them. They just sat there looking at me. Only when I leaned my naked body right out of the window and shouted at them to piss off did they deign to fly off. I forsee a difficult season ahead.
