I’ve been waxing lyrical about the mystical Grey Heron a lot during lockdown. But when it comes to the pigeon who’s been visiting me daily on my deck… my language does not become me.
We are having a stand off, this pigeon and I. I tried calling him ‘Percy’ to warm towards him. It didn’t work. Ever since he first appeared on my deck rail, caught my eye, stared me out and turned his bird bottom to perfectly hover at an exact angle above my beautiful plant. You can probably guess what came next.
I have never seen so much pigeon poo in one go in my life. Like he’d been saving it up to deliver on behalf of the whole of Cornwall. I watched horrified, as it dropped like sludge. Seconds that felt like slow motion hours as my vibrant purple plant become thoroughly drenched in that icky marbled grey and white stuff. I was powerless to stop it.
Percy returns to my deck day after day. I’ve become like a service station loo stop on his journey to somewhere else. When I spy him through the window I pull unwelcome faces to chase him away. But to no avail. I resort to flinging my window open to dramatically shoo and swear it away instead. Me, that serene nature lover, somehow reduced to this.
Perhaps I’ve unfairly pigeonholed this perfect poo tormentor for simply doing what pigeons do. Perhaps I should be grateful he’s helped me channel my lockdown frustrations, as a good friend might do. But, my dearest darling Percy, could I perhaps please just have a little bit less of your prodigious pigeon poo…?