I’m staying in a cute little cottage in the heart of Chelsea. In the super tiny back yard a pigeon family’s drama is unfolding in a painful fashion. When I fist arrived I was a bit annoyed at the two baby pigeons’ constant whining. Then I settled in by the window, observing, and felt only compassion for them. The mama pigeon was shooing them away in no uncertain terms as soon as they came close to her. She seemed to be building a new nest and didn’t want her kids anywhere near.
The pigeon babies – who look all grown up but certainly aren’t – were hovering miserably as close to her as she would allow. It was raining, it was cold, they were in a dark, dank corner right next to the garden wall, and my heart went out to them. They flapped their wings once in a while but couldn’t fly yet. I can still hear their miserable, lost, abandoned peeping, and it breaks my heart.
On the bus the other day I heard the mother of young child of about three shout “Shut up! Shut up! Just shut up!” at him. And on the street today I heard another mother yelling at her boy of about ten “That’s your problem! If you don’t wipe that mopy look off your face there will be no dinner for you tonight! Straight to bed!” and I heard his tiny deflated voice say “Sorry.”
It breaks my heart.