bird watching

Okay, so the weather is shit again, but the sun and the attendant basking activities which it provoked over the weekend provided a host of nice images; dogs out for cheerful walks, the sea a shocking green over behind the old pier, and young families circling newspapers in the Pavilion gardens while their young waddled across the park in search of adventure.

Rounding the Museum in the aforementioned gardens on Monday afternoon I saw a not-unusual sight; a sunny, fair haired child delightedly stumbling towards his father. Yet there was something wrong with the scene, and the boy's dad, necessarily more observant than me, spotted it first, jumping to his feet and galloping to meet him. Looking again at the child, I saw the source of his delight; clenched in his little white fist was a grey, feathery object. The kid's face glowed with happiness. The dead pigeon hung limply, bits of it stringy and red.

His dad wrestled the bird away, swung the bemused toddler up over his shoulder, and marched him, wriggling, out of the park. I didn't see what he did with the pigeon carcass - whether he simply left it where it fell, thrust it into a bin, or hoyed it away, amongst the bushes.