Adrian, whom I’d met once before, was walking to the venue faster than I was. So despite my being ahead on this chilly early morning, the gap was closing.
“Why do pigeons look sadder in London?” I asked Adrian as we drew level. I can’t remember his reply. But I do remember Adrian’s concentrated frown, a mumble about ‘toilet’, and an explanation that on this particular morning a considered walk-speed was key. “Too fast. Or too slow…” explained Adrian, “…could be disastrous.”
The pigeon I’d seen seconds earlier really did look sad. It was limping. A dozen feathers pointed like slim grey fingers in different directions. And its head was down. I remember the precise moment I saw sad pigeon. I was thinking about, and missing, my 8 year old daughter Izobel. She was in Northumberland, being Izobel. I was in London, on my way to a writing course. Just as sad pigeon came into view.
Later that day, over coffee, I had a thought. Does what we see influence how we feel? Or does how we feel influence what we see? Sad pigeon wasn’t the only pigeon in town. There were many. And not all sad.
I’ve concluded it’s (mostly) the latter. What we feel influences what we see. Which is good news for me because if I sit a little straighter, and smile a little wider, the world looks better.
I later found out it was a good day for Adrian too. His walk-speed was well judged. And disaster, thankfully, was averted.