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I don't know how you spent your weekend, but I'll bet mine was less fun than yours as I spent the last two days clearing out an old building which hasn't been touched since 1986.
It's unpleasant, dirty work shifting piles of old lumber, piping and crap which haven't been moved in over two decades, but by far the worst part of the job was the fact that the building had been inhabited by pigeons for all that time and everthing in there was thickly crusted with pigeon poo; in some places on the floor the deposits were over four inches deep and the only way to shift it was with a pressure hose.
I can think of ways I'd rather have spent my time. I could have won the Euromillions on Friday and spent the last forty-eight hours in an orgy of hookers and blow, for example (and those who know me know I'm not much of a one for hookers and blow, so I assure you that would have been a real challenge for me). As it is, the thing about pressure hoses is that water comes out at pressure, and so it sprays. It spatters. It shoots everywhere and whatever you're moving with it gets on your skin and in your hair and you quickly learn to keep your mouth shut.
The colony of pigeons who live there had wisely flown away at the approach of two fellows with high pressure water hoses and heavy cutting tools, except one which simply sat there and watched us. It was obviously a young bird, its neck and head still disproportionately large for the body and it quickly became clear to me that it couldn't fly. Instead it walked and tried to flutter away whenever we came near and hopped onto the scaffolding to try to get away from us.
"Look, bird", I said to it. "We're going to pressure wash this out in a bit and when we do you'll probably be killed, so I suggest you get out whilst the getting's good." It cocked its head and gazed back at me with an empty expression, bereft of either comprehension or curiosity. It reminded me of a girl I went out with at university.
"Go on", I said, waving my hands. "Shoo!"
It hopped a little further away on the scaffolding. I waved a little harder and more threateningly. "Bugger off, you daft bird!"
My workmate looked over. "There's a pellet gun about somewhere", he said. "Just pop a cap in its ass."
I declined. It's just a pigeon. It's no threat and I don't want to eat it so why kill it? I just wanted it to go away before the pressure washer turned it into a sad, dead, bundle of soggy feathers.
"Chase it out then", he said.
"It can't fly! I'll have to catch it and put it somewhere safe."
I've never tried to catch a flightless bird before, but it's not as easy as it might sound. I know Rod Hull managed it, but then again nobody caught a flightless Rod Hull when it counted so I suppose that was just karma evening things up. I pursued this damn bird around the building as it hopped from scaffolding pole to scaffolding pole, behind piles of wood, under furniture and machinery. "For Gods' sake, you damn stupid creature!", I shouted. "I'm trying to save your life, you...you...Argh!". It hopped just out of reach again.
Eventually, after a comedy pursuit during which I became even dirtier and hotter and generally less cheerful, I managed to grab it in both hands. Holding it gently to me, feeling for all the world like a character in a John Woo film, I carried the white dove outside and set it carefully on a high wall. "You should be safeish from cats and rats here", I said. I smiled. "If you stick around, I might go the the petshop and pick up some bridseed. You know, fatten you up a bit."
The pigeon turned it's head to look at me. Was there some glimmering of understanding there? Did it appreciate that I had saved its life? Had some sort of connection been made?
Obvoiusly not. It turned its head back, and flew away.
I watched it flying up into the sky. "You complete bastard!", I called after it, before trudging back in to continue removing years worth of its ancestors excreta and mummified corpses.
It's unpleasant, dirty work shifting piles of old lumber, piping and crap which haven't been moved in over two decades, but by far the worst part of the job was the fact that the building had been inhabited by pigeons for all that time and everthing in there was thickly crusted with pigeon poo; in some places on the floor the deposits were over four inches deep and the only way to shift it was with a pressure hose.
I can think of ways I'd rather have spent my time. I could have won the Euromillions on Friday and spent the last forty-eight hours in an orgy of hookers and blow, for example (and those who know me know I'm not much of a one for hookers and blow, so I assure you that would have been a real challenge for me). As it is, the thing about pressure hoses is that water comes out at pressure, and so it sprays. It spatters. It shoots everywhere and whatever you're moving with it gets on your skin and in your hair and you quickly learn to keep your mouth shut.
The colony of pigeons who live there had wisely flown away at the approach of two fellows with high pressure water hoses and heavy cutting tools, except one which simply sat there and watched us. It was obviously a young bird, its neck and head still disproportionately large for the body and it quickly became clear to me that it couldn't fly. Instead it walked and tried to flutter away whenever we came near and hopped onto the scaffolding to try to get away from us.
"Look, bird", I said to it. "We're going to pressure wash this out in a bit and when we do you'll probably be killed, so I suggest you get out whilst the getting's good." It cocked its head and gazed back at me with an empty expression, bereft of either comprehension or curiosity. It reminded me of a girl I went out with at university.
"Go on", I said, waving my hands. "Shoo!"
It hopped a little further away on the scaffolding. I waved a little harder and more threateningly. "Bugger off, you daft bird!"
My workmate looked over. "There's a pellet gun about somewhere", he said. "Just pop a cap in its ass."
I declined. It's just a pigeon. It's no threat and I don't want to eat it so why kill it? I just wanted it to go away before the pressure washer turned it into a sad, dead, bundle of soggy feathers.
"Chase it out then", he said.
"It can't fly! I'll have to catch it and put it somewhere safe."
I've never tried to catch a flightless bird before, but it's not as easy as it might sound. I know Rod Hull managed it, but then again nobody caught a flightless Rod Hull when it counted so I suppose that was just karma evening things up. I pursued this damn bird around the building as it hopped from scaffolding pole to scaffolding pole, behind piles of wood, under furniture and machinery. "For Gods' sake, you damn stupid creature!", I shouted. "I'm trying to save your life, you...you...Argh!". It hopped just out of reach again.
Eventually, after a comedy pursuit during which I became even dirtier and hotter and generally less cheerful, I managed to grab it in both hands. Holding it gently to me, feeling for all the world like a character in a John Woo film, I carried the white dove outside and set it carefully on a high wall. "You should be safeish from cats and rats here", I said. I smiled. "If you stick around, I might go the the petshop and pick up some bridseed. You know, fatten you up a bit."
The pigeon turned it's head to look at me. Was there some glimmering of understanding there? Did it appreciate that I had saved its life? Had some sort of connection been made?
Obvoiusly not. It turned its head back, and flew away.
I watched it flying up into the sky. "You complete bastard!", I called after it, before trudging back in to continue removing years worth of its ancestors excreta and mummified corpses.
