Pidgeon story.

---

In Princes Street Gardens

In the heart of Edinburgh's Old Town, the mayor had just taken a gulp of whisky from a hip-flask kept hidden under his desk when Mr Macduff burst into the room.

'We have a very unusual problem today, sir.'
'And what's that?' asked the mayor.
'An elderly woman was hospitalised this morning after being attacked by a small flock of pigeons in Princes Street Gardens.'
'What utter nonsense! Have you been drinking on the job, Macduff?'


'Not at all, sir. Mrs Doyle is recovering from shock and slight facial bruising in the Royal Infirmary at this very moment. I have informed her husband and asked him not to speak to the press. I've also been on the blower to Britain's top pigeon expert, Professor Alan Dewar, whom I swore to secrecy before telling him about this morning's mishap.'

The mayor dropped his head into his hands and groaned. 'Macduff, is there any particular reason why you deemed it necessary to refer this trivial incident to executive level?'

'Professor Dewar suggested the incident may have been caused due to the fact these pigeons are often grossly overfed by tourists,' said Macduff. 'According to the professor, the London City Council faced a similar problem at Trafalgar Square a few years ago.'

There was a tap at the door and two city councillors marched into the room. 'Sorry to interrupt sir, but an eight-year-old boy eating his sandwiches on Calton Hill was reportedly attacked by some aggressive pigeons," said the first councillor.

'Witnesses claim the birds cleverly launched their arial bombardment from the direction of the sun, thus maximising the element of surprise,' explained the second councillor. 'A bit like the tactics used by RAF pilots during the Battle of Britain.'

'Thank you, gentlemen. Now would you please be kind enough to arrange some kind of gift for the poor lad on my behalf. Oh, another thing, tell Catherine I can't take any calls this afternoon.'

The two city elders departed. The mayor scratched his bald head for a moment and stared at the framed photograph behind his desk. The photo revealed a younger man in a Royal Scots infantry uniform holding a rifle in one hand while salutely with the other. The mayor smiled as an idea began to appear in soft focus within his mind.

'Macduff, I think I might just have the perfect solution. In the meantime, please convey my deepest sympathies to Mrs -'

'- Mrs Doyle, sir.'



'Excellent. Now please close the door on your way out, I have some important telephone calls to make.'

The mayor paced up and down his office, swaying slightly, as he mulled over the latest crisis to trouble his office. His drinking problem was already threatening to spill over into public like a fresh stain of red wine. For years, those close to Edinburgh's ceremonial chief simply turned a blind eye to his fondness for expensive single-malt whisky. And with the help of his most diplomatic adviser, Kevin Macduff, he had managed to carry out his various duties with roughly the right degree of pomp and ceremony befitting the capital's symbolic head.

He also carried eye-drops and a box of peppermints in his blazer pocket and would occasionally excuse himself from formal functions on the pretext that his contact lenses were irritating him.

However, the mayor's cunning fascade was being to crumble. During a recent charity ball at the Assembly Rooms in George Street, he offended an alcohlic support group by suggesting Scotland's proud heritage was built by 'drunkards and desperadoes'. Despite Mr Macduff's attempts to diffuse the situation, the incident still appeared in the local papers the next day.



The following morning, Mr Macduff stormed into the mayor's chambers in a state of visible agitation.

'Have you seen The Scotsman today, sir?'
'No,' burped the mayor, as he popped a peppermint into his mouth.


Macduff dropped the morning edition onto the mayor's desk. 'Pigeon assassin injures tourist!' screamed the headline on the front page.

He read the first paragraph out aloud: 'A 15-year-old girl from Germany has been wounded in central Edinburgh by an unknown sniper who was reportedly armed with a high-velocity airgun. The unidentified gunman, who was believed to have been stationed at the top of the Scott Monument, was believed to have been shooting at pigeons in the Princes Street Gardens.'

The mayor's face reddened, droplets of sweat and alcohol shimmered on his forehead. 'For heaven's sake, Macduff, we really can't afford to become hysterical everytime a tourist experiences some mishap in this city.'

Macduff pointed a shakey finger at the newspaper. 'I demand an explanation, sir.'
The mayor cursed under his bourbon breath and reached for his silver hip flask.
'Why don't you have a wee drop to steady the nerves.'


His outraged adviser snatched the flask from his outstretched hand, 'This is no time to be drinking Scotland's finest whisky, sir.'

The mayor shrugged and sucked pensively on another peppermint. 'Look, I admit things didn't turn out exactly as planned but -'

'- What! Don't tell me you were the crazy idiot sniping at pigeons from the top of the most famous monument in the capital?'

'Bang!' shouted the mayor, as he lined up Macduff in the cross-hairs of an imaginery rifle. He chuckled at his own joke.

'If anyone hears about this you'll be lynched in public. They'll hang you right outside in the Grassmarket, just like in the old days,' said Macduff, pointing out the window.

'Let me explain,' said the mayor. 'I managed to sneak into the Scott Monument under diguise and waited until the attendent closed the ticket booth. Then I positioned myself in the upper reaches of the spire and started picking off the fattest pigeons, one by one.'

Macduff imagined the mayor perched precariously above the Princes Street Gardens, aiming at tiny flecks of grey feathers through blood-shot eyes and unsteady hands. He opened the hip-flask and took a long swig. It appeared that he had lost the power of speech. He stared dejectedly at the reflection of the whisky flask in his shiny black shoes.

The mayor began pacing up and down behind his desk. 'Everything was going swimmingly until that girl suddenly moved into my sights at the last moment. The next thing I saw a blond girl lying on the grass with blood streaming down her face. People were running in every direction, crying and screaming.'

'Of course, it's not all bad news,' he said as he paused at the window. Four storeys below him, tourists were descending the stairs at Waverley Station two at a time, ignoring the proud Scottish piper busking on the corner.

'The good news,' continued the mayor, 'Is that because the tourists will now leave the capital in their droves, the pigeons will no longer be overnourished and we'll be free of this rather absurd problem once and for all.'


Back <