This humorous true short story describes the rescue of a pigeon trapped in a Leicester Square pizzeria causing mayhem, and the antics of the distraught restaurant owners trying to assist.
It
was one of those pleasant warm sunny London Sunday mornings and although my early
morning routine had been ruined, I was enjoying a leisurely drive through the virtually
deserted north London streets from my base, heading for the West End. I had just
received a telephone call from an agitated restaurant owner in Leicester
Square, who had a bird trapped in his Pizzeria, which was apparently causing
mayhem. Being called out to such unusual situations was part and parcel of my
job as an RSPCA emergency service officer in the early 1970’s working for a
small specialist unit tasked with coming to the aid of trapped and distressed
animals all over Greater London at night and weekends.
I
drove slowly up Coventry Street to where it reached the pedestrian only
Leicester Square and soon spied the Pizzeria. I got out of my van and retrieved
a net and a basket from the back. I strolled across the virtually deserted square
towards the restaurant with the net under my arm. Twelve hours previously it would
have been alive with noise, bright lights and revelry, the hub of entertainment
for London at the time. Now devoid of all the crowds it was tranquil and you
could hear the sounds of birds in the trees and my footfall, but unfortunately
it also looked so shabby with grimy paving stones covered in flattened chewing
gum and the homeless sleeping on the benches along with a few revelers who
hadn’t made it home. Council cleaners were just finishing the morning clean up,
brushing away the rubbish and hosing down the pavement before the tourists
arrived. I reached the restaurant and could see movement inside so I tapped on
the front window and almost immediately a small man in an agitated state
appeared at the door.
“Cumma
in, cumma in,” he almost begged me in a beautiful Italian accent.
I
entered and was immediately greeted by the sight of a rather stout red-faced
woman frenziedly running around the vast restaurant with a broom held high.
“This
is ah my wife,” he explained. “We cumma in this a morning to open up and found the
bird in here. It has caused such a mess all over the tables and chairs. We must
get it out as we need to open soon.”
He
was getting quite distressed and stared at me imploringly, with great
expectation on his face, obviously under the false impression that I had a
simple remedy to the situation. I stood there net under arm and surveyed the
room with a professional countenance not wishing to give away my thoughts that
from past experience this could result in considerable devastation to this
man’s lovely restaurant. There were indeed a lot of bird droppings scattered
about, along with upturned chairs and quite a few feathers gently floating
about in the air. I then spotted the culprit in the form of a pigeon perched on
a ledge on the other side of the room occasionally bobbing his head in the
manner all pigeons do and surveying me with a keen eye as to who this stranger
was and what my intentions were.
“I
take it that you have been chasing the pigeon around for quite a while judging
by the mess?” I enquired.
“Yes
we hava. We have kept the front door open and have been chasing it with brooms,
but it just flies from one side of the room to the other,” he explained, waving
his arms from side to side.
The
ceiling must have been twelve to fourteen feet high and the room some sixty
feet long. Unfortunately, running all round the room near the ceiling there was
a ledge on which the pigeon was now perched. There were also light fittings and
wooden trellises adorned with plastic trailing plants that the pigeon could
make use of. He continued to peer down at us with a ‘what are these crazy
people going to do now’ look on his face. I only had my hand net with me which
would not really give me the height or arc of swing to capture him mid-flight so
I strolled back to my van for a couple of extension rods. Once back in the
restaurant I screwed the cane rods together so that I had a handle some six feet
long. The only problem with cane rods is that they tend to bend making the net
a little cumbersome. I turned to the man and his wife still watching me
apprehensively and impatiently for some form of action
“Right”,
I said in a determined voice, “I will have a go, but cannot be responsible for
any damage or mess I might cause.”
“I donna care what you do as long as you get
rid of thata bird.”
What
then followed would have done justice to a Royal Ballet production. I ran, I
jumped, I pirouetted and I threw my arms round in vain attempts to get the
pigeon into the net. Chairs tipped over, pots of plants tumbled and there was
the odd tinkle of broken glass. The pigeon flew from one side of the room to
the other, collided with the glass shop-front in a shower of feathers,
liberally sprinkled the tables and chairs with droppings in his panic, and
cleverly avoided all my attempts to catch him. After five minutes, we both sat
panting, me on a chair and he perched back on the ledge. I sat staring at him
wondering what to do next and he stared down at me with a cocked inquiring head
as if to say “you’re going to have to do better than that mate.”
“It’s
no good. I am going to need some help from you,” I said to the now shocked
restaurant owners who were standing there mouths open wide surveying the mess.
It took them a few seconds to respond.
“What canna we do?” they asked rather
cautiously.
“If
you can get hold of your brooms again and just chase him around so he cannot
perch anywhere, I’m sure at some point, he’ll fall to the ground or fly past me
close enough so that I can get him; you just keep him occupied and don’t worry
about me.”
This
time I climbed up onto a table so that I had more height and reach to swing the
net. I then gave my accomplices the nod and they bizarrely hurtled round the
room shrieking at the tops of their voices in Italian waving the brooms in the
air. I was rather stunned into inaction for a few seconds as I had not been
anticipating this bizarre banshee howling, but it did terrify the poor pigeon
which was soon flying around in panic. He flew past me a couple of times and I
failed to scoop him up, but after a few minutes he started to tire, as did the
restaurant owners. Suddenly my adversary landed on the table next to me exhausted,
I dropped the net over him, jumped down and grabbed him through the net. There
was no applause and I looked up to see my two red-faced and panting helpers
collapsed in chairs. I quickly popped him into the basket and once again
flopped into a chair. My arms were really aching and I was sweating profusely
with all the effort. I thought I might be pushing it to ask for a drink to cool
me down so I just exclaimed “I’ve got him!”
The owners only response was to just stare at me dejectedly and
then at their wrecked Pizzeria.
“I will take him away and release him. I couldn’t have done it
without you,” I said, trying to cheer them up.
“Please don’t release it anywhere near here,” he pleaded, “I donna
want him coming back”.
Assuring
them that I wouldn’t I left them to their clearing up. As I wandered back towards
my van, I took a little detour into the garden area of the square, made sure I
was out of eye-sight, opened the lid of the basket and allowed the pigeon to
flutter out. He gave himself a shake, gave me a look and nonchalantly wandered
off to join his mates apparently completely unperturbed at what had happened to
him.
Copyright John Brookland 2021/bitzabooks.com
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