If you click on this link and ensure the sound is up on your browsing device of choice.
I watched it for about 5 minutes last night. This is not an exaggeration.
But – then again – I like pigeons. And dancing. And dancing pigeons, apparently.
Whereas yesterday as I stood on the train platform in the morning waiting for the next train (for 9 minutes) some other people came milling up behind me just as the train approached, pushed me out of the way when the doors opened and wedged themselves on the train in the extremely limited space whilst leaving me on the train platform to await the next train that would arrive in 7 minutes’ time, I called them all fucking assholes and cunts as the doors closed while shaking my fist.
The pigeon? I just looked up at him as he waggled his tail feathers off the top of the building above me in satisfaction and wiped off my hair with a napkin.
Another, completely unrelated pigeon spotted it from 50 feet up. It quickly broke with formation and dive bombed a guy in the head who got in its way en route to the scraps of cheese and cucumber on white, a casualty of war.
I know this is partly the reason why I’m not supposed to feed the pigeons.
But it was hilarious.
So, those of you who read this blog know I have had a run in or two (or three or four) with pigeons in London. They always seem to be on a collision course with my face while I’m minding my own business on the pavement, walking here or there.
Apparently, I am not alone.
And, just as I suspected, these pigeons really do have it out for us all.
(Courtesy of Yelp Talk)
It’s like freaking The Birds outside my window right now.
Where have they all come from? What are they all doing flying around in circles in such mass numbers that they are blotting out the sky?
And, now, where have they all gone? As soon as they appeared, they have disappeared.
The pigeons, they’re out to get me.
I told Betsy before she went on vacation that I would update my blog. I didn’t update my blog. Betsy is back from vacation.
So now I am updating my blog.
It’s not that I don’t have enough time to update my blog. I mean, if I can laze around in bed watching British reality television at night, I have enough time to write something about my day. I think it’s just more a matter of getting in the habit of writing about my days that is the problem. The fact that I would like to write compelling prose and often feel that all I can muster is drivel doesn’t help.
In any event, I almost got hit in the head by a pigeon the other day. The pigeons seem to fly quite low here. It came out of nowhere and flew right at me! After an awkward duck-and-dart maneuver into oncoming traffic, I escaped pigeon decapitation. I arrived home and got a text from Red saying a pigeon pooped on him. I guess his pigeon experience trumps mine.
I have started going to yoga every morning. I managed to haggle down the cost of going to a posh ashtanga studio in Camden that does Mysore style yoga. It’s really refreshing, and after so long of not going to yoga I really appreciate it. The yogi there is really genuine; he so obviously cares about all of his students. Everyone works at their own pace, so upon first glance it might look like absolute chaos inside the studio, with people in different asanas and at varying degrees of sweatiness, but this creates a buzzing atmosphere that I have been enjoying.
I still haven’t made any actual friends here. It’s a bit lame, but I’m sure friends will come in time. A PhD student is on exchange from UPenn for the year (traveling with undergraduate junior-year-abroad students) and she’s auditing one of my classes. We discovered that we actually both live in International Hall, and she was due to come over last night for drinks and to meet Red. The thing is, I gave her my telephone number, but I gave her the wrong number. I’m pretty awesome. We’ll probably do drinks over at my flat next week sometime.
None of the family has made any plans yet to come over for my wedding in December. This is slightly disconcerting. Danica and mom still don’t have passports.
This weekend, Red and I are going back to Essex to do a bunch of wedding planning. His mother suggested we do this – come back for a weekend and just do all the planning we need to do and get it out of the way so we (read: I) don’t have to worry about it. It’s a good idea. I had a dream the other day that it was the day of the wedding and we hadn’t arranged any food for the reception.
My subconscious is obviously trying to tell me something.