Pigeons on the Grass, Alas

I’ve just noticed that the pigeons have stopped.

All summer, at what felt to me like the crack of dawn but was probably around eight a.m., I would wake to the regular call of wood pigeons.

‘Duh duh duuurh duuurh duh’

Always the same five notes– two short, fat, comfortable ‘duh’s, followed by long, jaded ‘duuurh’s – exactly the sound teenagers make to indicate that you have just stated the blindingly obvious. How nice to face each morning to the sarcastic comments of birds who’ve been up for, like, hours, and are already pissed off with the day.

But they’ve stopped whinging outside my window lately. Maybe now they’re Empty Nesters their expectations have lowered – they’re content with an early night and the odd Saga weekend.

They’re still around – wedged into the bird table or pottering on the back lawn, waiting for scraps left by the chooks. Fat, handsome specimens with soft pale grey plumage and elegant clean white necklets; a far cry from their shabby urban counterparts clad in shiny synthetic feathers, hobbling on deformed red feet like bag-ladies with chilblains.

There seem to be three wood pigeons; a nice pie-sized group.

‘Are not two sparrows sold for a penny?’ asks the Gospels. Not at discount supermarket Lidl, where, in festive pre-Christmas spirit, four tiny, pathetic frozen quails in a foil tin are currently retailing at £6. So my plump lawn-fed pigeons are worth a bit, and could come in handy for Boxing Day.

But you can’t shoot a sitting bird, even with your son’s airgun when nobody’s looking, and these three are far too fat and lazy to fly away.

I guess it’ll be turkey again this year.

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‘Pigeons on the grass alas. Short longer grass short longer longer shorter yellow grass. Pigeons large pigeons on the shorter longer yellow grass alas pigeons on the grass’

Gertude Stein (in one of her more lucid moments)