May 25

I have news :

My husband has formed a deep relationship.

Those of you who read my previous post about our decision to attack the marauding pigeons on our terrace with water pistols, may remember that we hadn’t actually scored one hit, despite lying murderously in wait for hours, mainly because the pigeons were, suddenly, nowhere to be seen. We decided they’d been put off by he noise of the re-started building work so this weekend, a bank holiday, seemed the ideal time to show them who’s boss.

Having now spent several days watching them, we discover there are three birds who regularly spend most of their time sitting on the roof several metres from ours. At intervals throughout the day, two of them journey to our terrace and sit below the feeder waiting for seed to drop from the beaks of the finches. The third remains on the roof opposite, looking on.

Writers being given to such fancies, my husband names the couple Leslie and Laura, decides they have been in love for many years, Leslie having stolen Laura from Lionel, her first love, who remains on the roof pining from afar, wracked with the pain of knowing she can never be his.

Despite having wound them them in this intricate narrative, “The Writer” is still determined to prevent the birds from visiting and continues to keep watch. Friday, gives way to Saturday and the pigeons become more adventurous as the builders’ din dies down. On Sunday, we watch their lumbering take-off as they obviously feel the time has come for them to leave their roof and venture further afield.

Leslie and Laura seem oblivious to the fact that they are living on borrowed time as they touch down on the terrace and he takes aim with the Super Soaker………

…….and misses.

…….and misses

……and misses again

Some time later, Lionel descends from his perch, presumably having decided that Leslie and Laura have gone for a jaunt – A nostalgic trip to Trafalgar Square, perhaps? Cooing about how crowded it used to be in the days of their courtship?.

Reckoning it’s safe for him to drop in to our place for a meal without enduring the agony of encountering the lovers, he descends onto our terrace.

There he sits, in full view, totally focussed on cleaning up the dropped seed. It’s clear he wouldn’t notice an army approaching. “Quick, quick”, I shout to “The Writer”, “There’s one here you can get”. He hurtles down the stairs from his study, grabs the loaded pistol and takes aim….. His arm stiffens in mid air, no stream of water issues from his gun and I watch his eyes mist over as he slowly and carefully lays it down on the table.

“What’s up?”, I ask

“That’s Lionel”, he says, shaking his head disconsolately. “I can’t shoot him. He’s too sad.”

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