The day the pigeon popped

Catching up with an old friend results in new trauma. But at least it was memorable.

It was a sparkly, summer day in lush Stratford-Upon-Avon visiting my friend who’s appearing in a Noel Coward play (uncharacteristically cultured, for me). We meet near the river for a wander as the swans and ducks bob about and the punters punt, feeling an upbeat spring in our step. We’ve not seen each other for a while… but when you go forty years back, the words and the laughs keep flowing like no time has passed.

Cosying ourselves on a sunny outside table on the pavement facing the road at a ye olde worlde pub and get an oldy-worldy ale. That relaxed, gorgeous gorgeousness of those odd occasions that this country feels like a vaguely pleasant place to live. Ah, the beautiful idyll.

For fuck’s sake, a bloody pigeon.

Not an unusual sight, didn’t think much of it… until a massive articulated lorry came bombing down our tiny road. Grey and purple feathers started spinning through these stupid-sized wheels, clack-a-lacking round and round in hideous horror. We started screaming, averting our eyes, but the sounds were unblock-out-able.

Sweet lord, it’s still alive.

We thought it was over, but nope, not yet. Staggering about with its eye hanging out, ready for the next onslaught as a smaller little car deals the final death blow. Still screaming, hiding between fingers and then… the almighty, otherworldly POP!

It never occurred to me, simply there nattering comfortably, popped outside a little pub that day, that we’d hear a pigeon pop.

A crowd of Japanese tourists walking past gathered, feeling like someone should do something. But what is there to do with a completely splatted pigeon? There were no answers, just pretend it’s not happening and move on with our respective days.

Grotesque and hideous as it was, it was a weird one for me, as my memory ain’t that great. But this incident is now seared in there.

I’m pretty sure I have a severely deficient autobiographical memory, as most of my memories are of photos or relaying repeated stories of events, rather than remembering moments themselves. Like waking up from a dream with a vague idea of what’s happened, but absolutely no replay capacity. I have a barely existent mind’s eye and don’t really picture stuff in my head. And no internal monologue, either.

Let’s say, I’ve never had to meditate. The idea of escaping the world by picturing a serene shore with a lapping tide is a complete anathema to me. Hence, why I have to keep going to far-flung ones in real life. In there, it’s a blank space. Not even a tumbleweed going past, that’s a bit much.

But then, a moment of horror like a pigeon popping will break on through to the other side. It’s lodged in the old grey matter. Maybe because it’s a story worth repeating? The act of telling the grizzled tale maps new neural pathways of oral tradition. Maybe because it was a sonic sensation? Not just looking at a scene, but the sound of the pops and our pathetic screams as we spied it happen through half-open eyes.

It was fun (that might not be quite the right word, I’m not really into pigeon popping or anything). Well, sort of fun to have my usual hazy life punctuated with something actually memorable to me. It might not sound like much and might only be a pigeon, but it was a tangible moment.

But already as I write this, it is delicately fading away. Willow-the-wisping away to into the vapour of nothingness like everything else. This might sound like existential bollocks, but that’s how my brain works. Trivia facts are locked in, but events in my life are long gone in an instant. It’s not good and it’s not bad. It’s just how my system operates.

But occasionally, just very occasionally, I’ll catch that popped pigeon moment and it’s a day to remember.