I do not like pigeons. That may not come as such a novel sentiment to those of us who live in a large city, but these creatures do make my skin crawl. The reason I’m telling you this is because they have reappeared on my balcony.
Again, why, oh why should I mention the flying critters? Because I want you to take up the cause of the little garden birds I am trying to feed, that’s why. Mr and Mrs Robin, her slim-bodied and all legs, him dumpier and oh-so loud, seem to like the seeds I put out. So do the Dunnocks, who had a very successful brood this year. And I do like the Blackbirds and their surly teenager, sitting in seeds but still waiting to be fed by his parents. Even the choosy Great Tits, who fling the seeds they don’t like out of the feeders, I can put up with, but not the greedy, piggy pigeons.
The pigeons come in two or threes, hoover the seeds up and go. The worst of them, No-Tail (he’s missing half of his), is fearless and has become my nemesis. No matter how many times or how noisily I shoo him away, he flies just out of reach and fixes me with his beady eye.
But you know what annoys me most? That, as an urban version of his plump and delicious country cousin, I can’t even fantasise about having him on my plate with petits pois à la française…