Bicycle-envy is what I’m currently suffering. Not because I long for the wind (and fumes) through my hair, or because I actually want to go anywhere, but because I came upon this Bicycle Repair Station yesterday – sorry, DELUXE Bicycle Repair Station. New things seem to keep popping up in London these days without warning or publicity.
As far as I can tell, not being and never having been, a cyclist, you hoist your bike up onto the two knobs at the top, which leaves you free to get to grips with the shiny new tools hanging below.
The tools look so exciting, I’m left wondering what else I could repair, not owning a bike. Do I have anything with tyres that need pumping up?
Anyway, it looks like a brilliant thing and maybe they’re all over the city and all over the country and every cyclist knows they’re there but I’ve never seen one and I thought you might not have, either.
I also came upon this lady, surrounded by pigeons.She was happily feeding them and happy for me to take her photo but didn’t fancy telling me why she was there, so left me to wonder: Is she lonely? Did she have a bird that died, leaving her sad and longing for avian company?, Does she fear the pigeons might starve? Is she a countess, fallen on hard times, used to the ballrooms of Vienna and now reduced to the society of pigeons?
I walked on, leaving her with her contentment and me with my phantasies.
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.
Leslie and Laura
Lionel
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
Leslie and Laura evade shooting
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.”
Who could have guessed that my newly- discovered interest in wildlife would turn violent?
Inspired by tales of Amy and Peter’s blackbird who visits for mealworms and the sight of the two tiny green birds (greenfinches?) who chase each other around the skies above our terrace, I decided to send for a bird feeder and some feed. The feeder arrived and was duly sanitised, as was the bag of feed, a combination of seeds and nuts cutely called “peckish”. It had looked quite small in the picture but turned out to be about the size of a pillow and heavy as concrete.
My first dilemma was where to hang the feeder. I’m growing gooseberries and tomatoes on the terrace and we lost the tomatoes last year to blight. I don’t fancy losing them this year to a different predator. The feeder had to be distant from both, yet near enough for us to spot any visitors to it from our kitchen table.
I filled it, hung it and caused much amusement when the greenfinches arrived for the first time in the middle of a Zoom call with friends, who watched me become hysterical with delight. I’ve cracked it, I thought. All I have to do now is sit and wait for delightful and rare birds to turn up from all over the world.
(I had to pretend I didn’t have in mind my Australian friend’s visitors to his breakfast table last week.)
I HADN”T TAKEN PIGEONS INTO ACCOUNT!!!!!!!
They arrived in droves, shouldering the finches out of the way as they scavenged for seed the little birds had dropped from the feeder. I was reminded of what Trafalgar Square used to be like – hundreds of tourists delightedly buying bags of seed and stuffing it into scrofulous pigeons perched on their outstretched hands, shoulders and heads. Funny, we hardly noticed them go when the hawk patrol got rid of them once and for all – the pigeons, that is, not the tourists – though, of course, there’s no sign of those either, these days. But importing a hawk to our terrace wasn’t an option. We had to find another way.
It was ” the writer” who came up with the solution – water pistols.
Of course, we could have fun, get rid of the pigeons harmlessly and enjoy our greenfinches. Brilliant!
On line, searching for the perfect water pistol, I found myself in a parallel universe. with its own hyper-macho language:
“Stormblaster”, “Soakzooka”, “Floodtastic” “Hydrostorm big shot soaker”, “Barracuda”
I discovered that adults – male adults, mostly- actually buy water pistols – sorry, water guns – for themselves! I even read an article headed “Watery Warrier. Best guns for grown men”
In case you’re planning to join them- the favourite seems to be “The Mayhem” (See below.) Compensation or what!
The James Purdey or Holland and Holland of water guns appears to be a company called “Nerf” which, as yet, doesn’t seem to have progressed to the bespoke gun – making offered by the best English gunmakers. Perhaps Water Warriors aren’t prepared to wait the two years it can take to craft the perfect weapon for its owner. Nerf don’t even offer to alter their ready-made guns to fit the user like the real gunmakers do – a gap in the market perhaps?
Anyway, our “Stealth Soakers” arrived promptly.
We breakfast on the terrace, guns at the ready. Lunch is eaten inside, weapons placed casually on the sideboard near the open kitchen door. Supper is a nightmare of false sightings, each of us leaping up at different times to take aim. The only thing we succeed in hitting is our digestive systems, which, by the day’s end are shot to pieces. The pigeons which normally sit jeering at us from the railings or have to hoist their overfed bodies onto the back of the terrace chairs as a staging post en route to the railings, have vanished.
Could the noise from the re-started building work have driven them away? Could they have sensed our malign intent? Might they return on Sunday when it’s quiet?
Locked down in London 