Love Sunshine

Park life

The sun sneaks through in scattered shreds, and I greedily grab the rare rays it affords. My morning ritual is now all but a fond memory. But one morning last week I woke up to pale blue cloudless skies, and seized the opportunity by taking the early bus and seeking out my usual patch. No chance. Too low at that time, I moved on to Russell Square, big enough surely to have sufficient patches to share. But too tree-filled to allow any of the benches to be graced by the late-rising sun. The grass, which, 4 weeks ago now, would have been straw dry and accommodating, was lush, green and decidely damp and muddy. And so I moved on, northwards, to fresh squares and pastures new.

I found a patch in an unfamiliar square, with a bench facing a scrub of grass. Filled with pigeons. It's an occupational hazard of an obsessive urban sun-seeker to become aquainted with the habits of these birds. And there are few things more belittlig to the male ego than to watch them at their sports. As Blur put it, 'they love a bit of it'. They most surely do, but can't always get it. Sigh.

In fact rarely get it, from what I have observed. You usually see it in spring time. The males, puffed up and cocky, with tails splayed and chests out, they strut their stuff before the females like so many feathered Travoltas. They spin and preen, do their little twirls, to the complete indifference and uninterest of the females. Working their avian mojo, it takes the male a short while to notice the fact that the female has moved on. He attempts to recover his composure, gathers himself together, and pursues the next babe who wanders into view. The old game of courtship.

But what I find most depressing to contemplate is the fact that I have never once seen a male pigeon successfully copping off with one of his conquests. There's plenty of the bloody things about, so the pigeon race must be replenished from somewhere. Just not from any of the ones I've spied on my benchside sun vigils over the years. Perhaps I'm in the wrong parks. Me and the pigeons both. In other parks, in other parts of the city, in other cities, pigeons and not doubt humans enjoy fulfilling romantic relations. Watching these unfortunate males strikes a chord in me and I look away. It's bad enough seeing happy couples, without having loser pigeons to remind me of my prospects.

The ones I saw this particular morning were a sad and shabby crew. The dregs of what Londoners unaffectionately call flying rats. They were huddled together in a mass in front of my feet, and looked like they had been sleeping there all night. I'm not really an expert on pigeon sex, beyond the folorn attempted scuffles I'd observed over the years. But I assumed they were seasonal, and that it was in the spring that a young pigeon's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of tail(feather). If it is, then this one chap i had observed had found some viagra in his millet. While the rest were dozily suppine he was trying his luck with all he surveyed. He'd dispensed with all pretence of flamenco courtship (perhaps for the reasons I'd noted), and simply tried to climb on to anything he could find. He didn't have any more luck than his more ostentatious brethren, but I had to admire his nerve. A last ditch attempt while the sun shone.... Oh, God.