A handsome man will be forgiven most things but a love of pesky pigeons is not one of them, says a disappointed Liz Frost

I love living in London. I live in a little house right on the corner of London Fields, by Broadway market. Every morning, I wander down past the recently expanded Hyminh grocery store (those guys have no idea of the hilarity), past the Cat and Mutton pub and across the road to the little newsagent to get my paper - sometimes throwing a friendly smile to the crazy Rasta guy who usually returns the favour with a rhyme. (Yesterday it was: “Lady in red, I want you in my bed, The fact you hold your skirt, lets me know you’re not a flirt…”). But if there’s one bug bear I have about living in London, it’s the pesky pigeons.

Yesterday morning, there I was, on my usual jaunt to get my copy of the Guardian – alright, the Daily Mail – one of those pesky sky rats pooped on my head. He had the whole of London fields to poop on, why aim at my freshly washed hair?

That’s not the only occasion I’ve fallen foul of a pidgeon either. Last week, on my way home from Oxford Circus, one flew into my head – I kid you not. I felt his soft underbelly skim the top of my head and his little twiggy legs scrabble over my forehead as he tried to right himself. What an idiot, I thought. (Him, not me).

So, as you can imagine, I was none too pleased when Laura wanted to meet me for a sandwich in Trafalgar Square. Of all the places you’d want to be carrying bread- based goods, Trafalgar Square is not one of them. Those sneaky little suckers are just everywhere. Squawking in your ears and flapping round your feet until you finally give in and give them half your lunch. I tried to persuade her that Covent Garden would be much nicer (“and think of the shops”) but she was having none of it, so I finally relented and met her by one of the large cast-iron lions.

There she was shrouded in Pigeons with a smile like a slice of cantaloupe. “Hiiii” she beamed. “Ugh” I said back. At which point a one of the ratty little fellas snuck up and landed on my shoulder. I shooshed it away. “Come on, let’s sit down,” I guided her and her cloak of pidgeons onto a bench.

That’s when I saw possibly the best looking man I’ve ever seen, leaning against the lion with a feathery audience of five, eating a packed lunch (him, not them). Laura was already nudging me in the ribs and doing that head-cock thing she does that isn’t obvious at all. “I know, I know!” I hissed. He was coming over…

Him: (Eyeing the empty space next to us, almost seductively) “Mind if I sit down” Us: (Shaking our heads wildly and making space) Him: “Thanks” (squeezing into the tiny space we’d made in between the two of us)

This was cosy. We sat there, the three of us chatting, Laura and I mentally willing the other to leave. (I knew I’d win because I get as long as I like for lunch).

Things were going so well…Then he did something unspeakable. Something no Londoner in their right mind would have done. We watched him as, almost in slow motion, he started to break off a small bit of bread from his sandwich and before we could yell “Noooooo” he had thrown it onto the ground. We looked at each other in horror. Suddenly there were hundreds of them, pecking and squawking around his feet. Before long, we were all covered in them. It was a bloodbath. There were feathers and crumbs everywhere. Poor Laura – one of them actually pooped in her ear.

Needless to say, ten minutes later Laura and I were in Covent Garden, minus our dashing friend. “He was cute,” she said, sulkily, mopping her ear with a Kleenex. “Yes, but no man is worth getting your ear pooped in for,” I said. She reluctantly had to agree.

This will forever be known amongst close friends as The Pigeon Incident.

Liz Frost is a freelance writer specialising in features for women's magazines. She writes for Company, Cosmopolitan, Glamour, Zest, B and Bliss. Email her at liz_frost@yahoo.co.uk, even if it's just to say hello!