Pigeon Deaths and the Games People (Don't) Play (Any More)

One morning recently, I came into the office, and a feather floated down past my window. I thought, ah, that's pretty. After a couple of seconds another one fell. Ah, I thought again. Then some more came down. I went over to the window and looked up; there was a crow, picking savagely at the corpse of a pigeon.

Then, later that same day, I was walking through the park, and I see one of the local schoolkids, who must have been about 13, cooing to some pigeons and throwing it some breadcrumbs. In her other hand, she held a large stick. Fortunately, the pigeon was too quick for her.

If I was living in a Shakespeare play, or was myself a pigeon, these would be OMENS.

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In unrelated news (unless he's taken to slaughtering wildlife and gorging himself on their corpses), my friend Chris has set up a blog to document his attempts to give up video games for a year. While I applaud his efforts, I've a feeling that he's going to be living vicariously through me, and asking me for ever more detailed descriptions of the games I've played, while he drools and struggles to control his thumbs. He's doing it for charity to boot.

Game Over Blog

(Photo from nakolah)

Apologies for not posting anything for ages, but I've been living in fear. Every tiny noise in the flat fills me full of dread anticipation. Any creak, bang, jangle or flapping of the wings of a pigeon in the jaws of a cat makes me start in terror. Oh, I think I may have given the game away. Damn.

Yes, the first victim of the Mog Summer of Horror has been taken. A young pigeon by the name of Flappy was bought to an untimely demise by the rampant cat-jaws of our cat earlier in the week, but I've known it was coming. There's something about the demeanour of a cat - perhaps a devillish twinkle in her eye, perhaps the extra vim she puts into chasing the toy panda - that lets you know that SHE WILL KILL AGAIN.

It's the bin-men I feel sorry for. They're the poor buggers who have to take it away.

(NB - cat-kill photo above not done by me or my cat - it's from here. Thanks, Flickr).

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Why is it that the only people to wear shorts all year round are footballers and postmen? What is it that they have in common? Apart from always being down the pub (and I really can only speak for the postmen of the N5 postal district here, not to put any kind of slur upon the good name of postpeople - footballers, however, I feel free to cast aspersions about, as I've seen some right bloody rubbish football recently).

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On a different, and possibly even more whimsical tack: I wonder, am I the only person who regularly sees nuns on the way to work? While I cycle by, slickly oiled machine that I am, habitted-up nuns shuffle past.

Anyone else see any nuns -or better still - monks on their way to work? (NB Buddhists DON'T count. Sorry.)

Me vs Pigeons

The pigeons have struck back in the ongoing battle for supremacy between featherless, hygienic me and the fearful filthwings. I arrived at work. I picked up a parcel addressed to Nicola Kirkham, c/o me. I wandered into my room thinking, not unfairly, "Who the bloody hell is Nicol Kirkham?" What I wasn't thinking was, "Hello pigeons, how have you enjoyed your time flapping round the office, you disgusting evil beasts?" That's what I should have been thinking, because there were two sickeningly fat and barely able to fly pigeons crashing about. I had to get someone with a stick to help me guide them out of the window. I'm not used to helping pigeons without using the Swift Hammer of Merciful Death, so it was a slightly strange experience for me.

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In brief Evening Standard headline news, I saw one the other day that looked like it might just be a new indie band advertising their new album (available on CD and download from iTunes from Monday):

Missing Internet Girl: New Pictures

(Come to think of it, she can't actually be all that missing if they have new pictures of her. I'm not going to buy the Standard to find out though; they're not going to get me that way, oh no).