I'm sitting in the office on a gray, rainy London day, and I am being stalked.
I know this, because there is a very large, very disgruntled pigeon sitting on the wall right outside my window, staring at me. He's been there at least ten minutes.
I don't like pigeons.
In fact, I'd take it one step further than that and say that I actually have a slight PHOBIA of pigeons. Whenever people ask me, "what are you afraid of?", pigeons are the first thing that spring to mind. Not drowning or snakes or tight spaces or heights. Pigeons.
I have been told before that this is irrational and ridiculous.
"Like, you wouldn't cross the street to avoid a pigeon, would you?" a friend asked me once.
I narrowed my eyes at her: "It depends. How big is the pigeon, and is he there with his friends?"
But in my defense, pigeons don't like me either. I know this because they stalk me all the time. A few years ago, I rented a room for a few months, and I SWEAR, there were pigeons living in the crawlspace directly above my bed. They cooed and walked around all in the ceiling all the livelong day, except whenever I'd call my roommate in to listen for them. They knew. They wanted me to look crazy. I nearly killed myself hanging out of the second-story window one day, trying to get eyes on that blasted crawlspace and whether it was possible to stop it up--to no avail.
Or the time I innocently walked into Holland & Barrett on my lunch break - a health food store, mind you - and found a ginormous pigeon nesting in the bulk aisle on top of the honey roasted peanuts. I love honey roasted peanuts, and now they're ruined for me forevermore. I'm telling you, it knew that.
I may have to stay indoors today. So the pigeons can't get me.