contemplating pigeons

Please do not feed
the pigeons.
They are a health hazard
and a nuisance.

I saw this sign, tucked away in the corner, at Acton town station. This is one of those places that is at the end of the world, half forgotten, half abandoned, and yet is still mysteriously populated by old people shuffling about in their 1950's thick woolen chequered coats, people with old- world grimaces and crooked teeth, a place that is permanently bathed in sunshine, as if it was always a Sunday afternoon there. Past Ravenscroft. It's better not to stop there, but quickly pass through, convincing yourself all the time that such places do not really exist...

That someone should say "please" only confirms that this is England. Note: it is not "do not"...not a command but neither a request; a thousand years of English tradition are summarised in those words: the law is binding but it is a tradition, a set of customs and precedents and common sense behaviour, not a directive nor a moral imperative.

What troubles her, though, is the use of the words "they are"; this has the ring of metaphysical certainty about it. Can one be so sure that all pigeons are a nuisance or is it only these ones that have reached the end of the line, the retrogrades that have escaped the centre? It is as if one wanted to define the very essence of pigeonhood in terms of this one characteristic (and let us not forget that they may have many other traits as well). Surely it would have been better to say : "they may be a nuisance"?

I imagine an elderly Benthamite figure sitting there, calculating the exact costs and benefits of allowing the pigeons their freedom; one has to weigh this against the "nuisance value" they impose on us humans; the problem of making inter-personal comparisons of utility pales before the difficulty of making inter-species ones!

Some pigeons think by being still, the Greek ones, that is; others, the muslims and jews, think whilst walking or fluttering their wings, as if in a mystical frenzy. Athens and Jerusalem.

My attention turns elsewhere. I see my shadow clearly outlined against the brilliant light; with my black hat and long coat the shadow comes to resemble a chess piece or a Russian priest against an infinite white landscape. Never have I seen myself so clearly as I did then....

---photo: courtesy of Roxana.