It’s dad’s fault. He got me thinking about pigeons. Not the sort you see in London, which are all too free-range and descended from Tyrannosaurus Rat. And have the same number of legs as a one-legged goalkeeper in grey watching the balls go in right-left-right again.
I don’t know how some species cross the road, to be honest. If pigeons needed money they would be double-glazing salesmen, and don’t get me started on that. I now happily cross the road to avoid them.
I was quite happy confining pigeon to amusing songs by John Shuttleworth and the occasional breast (roasted) with rhubarb compote, toasted brioche and black pepper ice-cream.
Now dad tells me there are a number of types of pigeon. Some have collars with grey feathers, but others just have grey feathers and collars.
This is a mystery to me, and indicative that I know Next To Nothing about birds and birding.
They do taste fabulous with ice-cream, though.
jam and giraffes 