I’m in Hyde park eating a falafel in pitta when a scrawny pigeon comes over and makes me feel a bit depressed.
It looks like a very poor pigeon and has a wayward feather poking horizontally from just above its eyebrow.
If it was a human it would have seemed it got out of bed and just left the house in a dirty oversized football sweater and dirty trainers with no laces.
I chew at my falafel and pity the unkempt pigeon even more when 2 muscular and robust pigeons with shimmering preened feathers come over and coo viciously in his face, as if to say get lost, hobo pigeon!
He probably skirts round the edges of a flock, ignored, this poor guy.
Based on the above scenario, I conclude that the only good thing about being a bird would be taking to the skies in complete control of my own wings.
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