My name’s Pete. I’m the pigeon you’ll often see perched on the gravestones in St Helen’s churchyard. And before you say anything, no, I didn’t choose it because it’s holy. I chose it because it’s high, safe, and I can balance here. The local cats can’t bother me.
Now, about the foot. Probably the first thing you noticed. It’s bent up. Doesn’t hurt anymore. Doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t define me. Every pigeon in Abingdon knows: you’re not a proper town-centre bird until you’ve lost a toe, some feathers, or had a near miss with an e-scooter.
I misjudged a landing and ended up tangled in some orange mesh that twisted round me. I got out, but the foot didn’t come out too well. Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been a wing.
Being hit by a car or a truck is worse. A bad foot just slows you down. It’s not the end.
From up here I can see everything: dropped chips, lost ice-cream cornets, and the homo sapiens who think we pigeons need bread.
And I survive here. Bent foot. Near-on perfect body.
Attracting a female is a problem, though. My mating dance doesn’t hit the high notes. Some of the lads puff out their chests, strut about, and suddenly have an admirer cooing at them. I do my best: a hop, turn, wobble, flap. But it doesn’t bring the females out in raptures. Some of them are kind about it. But not kind enough to let me —
Hey. What’s going on there? Some homo sapien taking my photograph. Not even bird seed for it. Is it because of my foot?
I’m off!
