Platforms 4 and 5 of Manchester Victoria station, to be precise (making this, incidentally, the 900th shot taken in Manchester). The sign is meaningless in context, but the pigeon seems to be wilfully defying it anyway. On the left (4), the 12:15 to Redcar Central and on the right, the 12:15 to Blackburn, both punctual. But was I on my way into work late, or coming home early?
Even in Manchester, the Rochdale Canal usually looks a bit more aesthetically pleasing. Perhaps this is an accidental draining — it happens, people sometimes leave locks open. Or there is some big clean-up about to happen. Future archaeologists will love all this crap. Meanwhile, the runner on the left ponders whether a) he will be allowed to proceed more than another few yards and b) whether he is about to step on a pigeon.
Only a few weeks back the gawky thing with over-size feet would have been an adorable little ball of golden fluff. We all go through an awkward phase at adolescence though, don’t we. The pigeon, meanwhile, is attempting to recruit this new arrival in the war against the ducks, but soon, the goose will realise it is above all that rubbish.
Once again, not the most exciting day, photographically or otherwise. But this one can make the cut for the curiosity factor of a pre-8am shot in Manchester: the earliest taken there since December 2022. These used to happen a lot more often; in 2019 alone I count six. But in 2019 I was still trying to be some kind of ‘manager’ at work. Not any more. These days, the Exchange Square pigeons can have their early morning paddles without me. In fact that was the last day I will be on campus until the 22nd.
“Just out for a stroll, Mum. Hanging out with the lads, at the Football Museum, y’know.”
Don’t expect much in the way of variety of scene over the next few days. I spent all the month’s money in Cornwall, and payday is keenly awaited. Even the pigeon turns away somewhat disdainfully from the camera as I try to inject some interest.
This pigeon nest has been under observation for a couple of days now, seeing as it resides just above the outdoor seating area in the pub, and for the duration, this fledgling has been receiving plenty of encouragement to leave it. Every so often it comes out, slithers around on the roof tile (some seven feet above the ground) for a while, cheeps in an alarmed fashion, then goes back inside. Mum, or possibly Dad, seems to be getting rather fed up with the whole thing. I can’t say I blame it. My one was off like a shot, first chance he got.
The working week ends as it started — with a bird photo-bombing the shot. But I like it.
The message on the one side is clear enough — but the bin? More proof that others are starting to lose it thanks to lockdown? Or perhaps they have always been the same.
Tensions are clearly running high in the ongoing pigeon-duck war. With negotiations having broken down, the pigeon high command has sent out a brave scout to keep an eye on the mallards. But what it hasn’t spotted is the counter-espionage agent sneaking in from the left.
Being 42 