Tuppence, tuppence

Today I opened all the windows in our new apartment to exorcise the paint fumes that had haunted us for the last week. Sun and wind poured in, carrying with them the sounds of the streets below. I made a cup of tea, took a biscuit and went over to look out. People went to and fro, some hurried, some meandering between shop windows or waiting for dawdling progeny. I watched them from above and revelled in the new freeness gifted by these tall, wood-framed windows, for in my last apartment I had no such thing. The evening air was fresh; it smelt of melting snow blown down from Puy-de-Dome, whose smoke blue head rose up to look down onto the city, on a clear day like this one. Below me, water burbled from the tarnished mouths of three lions, carved in volcanic stone.

On the windowsills around me, plentiful in the little alleys shrouded by tall buildings, pigeons sat, the wind ruffling their feathers. I broke my biscuit into crumbs and spread them on my window sills for them to eat. After a while, one flew over. Mottled white and grey, like a car covered in bird droppings. Its eye, however, glowed in the sunshine like a beautiful red bead. I watched it for a while, until it flew away with that rushing sound particular only to a pigeon in flight. As the sun dimmed, I watched more pigeons, coming and going from my windowsill, eating the crumbs I'd left them. My heart filled with joy, then sank again, each time they came and left. I noticed a man, smoking at his window, not far across the street, was looking at me with a smirk on his face. It was then that I realised I had become a mad old pigeon lady and promptly called it all off; I swept the remainder of the crumbs off the sill and, slightly red faced, closed the window.

How sad! I look forward with relish to being 80 years old so I can carry out my pigeon fancying activities without fear of social stigma.