Saturday, 7 July 2007

Shit happens

Well, have just come back from a quick trip into Birmingham City Centre to return most of the stuff I bought last week whilst on a shopping trip with my daughter. It's all her fault. She eggs me on. I think it's because she doesn't like the thought of me getting old, so she encourages me to buy clothes which aren't really suitable and a bit too young for me. Either that or she's planning to raid my wardrobe sometime soon.

Anyway, we nearly didn't go because I was worried about the heightened security alert we've all been under since last week's scarey terrapin* episodes in London and Scotland, but my husband (whose message is "bollocks to that, I'm going") taunted me with an offer of lunch at Selfridges Noodle Bar which I considered to be worth the risk so off we went with me still a bit nervy. He gave me a pep talk all the way into town about how we mustn't be intimidated or be frightened to live our lives because some people were trying to force their views upon us, etc., etc., and that I was more likely to be hit by something dropping out of the sky than be blown up whilst shopping, and so on (and on). Lecture over, he dropped me off at the back of Rackhams (please note, if you are from Birmingham, this does not mean that I am a prostitute) and went to park the car, so I walked through the sunny Cathedral square, picking my way carefully through the two million pigeons who have squatters' rights there.

What is it with pigeons? Why do they wait for you to politely skirt around them, then suddenly fly up into your face all feathers and flutter? I hate the bloody things. The feeling is obviously mutual because today one actually pooped on me - although judging by the huge acrid dollops that hit me this could well have been a case of formation-pooping by the pigeon tribute version of the Red Arrows. Yes, something actually did fall out of the sky and it definitely wasn't a bit of space debris.

If you've never been crapped on by a pigeon, I can honestly not recommend it - it reeks. It's hot, acidic and burns like hell. You feel so stupid with pigeon-shit highlights and a liquid brown handbag charm when only one minute earlier you thought you looked quite good, actually. No amount of Chanel Number 5 is going to hide this stench. You just know your rope-soled suede wedges are going to be a bugger to clean. It also tends to put a dampener on your enjoyment of beef in blackbean sauce at the Noodle Bar although I can guarantee you'll definitely get an empty seat beside yours where you can put your coat.

Am off to wash my hair, clothes, shoes and bag now so must dash. There must be a moral to this story somewhere though for the life of me at the moment can't think of what it is.

*not using the proper word in case I set off a bloody great hooter at the Anti-Terrapin HQ or something.


aminah said...

this was so funny!! I will be back to read more...and good for you...never allow fear of mad crazy folk limit your everyday freedoms...

jane said...

Thanks Aminah, so great to hear from you. Am struggling with the technicalities of blogging in that I haven't a clue what I'm doing but hope to find out by trial and error. Story of my life really.

Best wishes :)

The Grocer said...

Are youre it wasn't seagull guano? In my experience this tends to be stronger smelling than pigeon poo.

Swearing Mother said...

You know, Grocer, I think you may be right. Having had the chance to compare pigeon poo with seagull guano recently, it is indeed even more offensive if that were possible.

It's odd to think that seagulls from the seaside would bother to come to Birmingham for their holidays, but there's no accounting for it. Maybe they were hoping to pick up a local bird in Pigeon Park.

Best wishes.