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Pigeons, Loud Sex, My Neighbour and The Matrix
The upside of self-isolation is that you can avoid what you hate the most. For me that’s pigeons. Or, for that matter, anything that can flap wings and shit on my head.
Birds freak me out because of my grandad. He was a farmer. A hunter in his spare time. When I was a kid, one day I opened the fridge and found all these dead-eyed birds with wet feathers and a hole where the bullet was shot. All lined up next to cheese and iceberg salads. I swallowed my own spit waiting for them to turn their heads, moving their beaks and come back from the dead. That never happened. But, just in case, I screamed like a maniac. My mum cracked herself up. Grandad too. At dinner they’d strip and lick clean all those little bones. While me, I would just try not to throw up.
Today, the main and only dish is potato and celery soup. Which is probably not a thing, but you never have a fancy cookbook at hand when you need one. Meat-free.
I loathe birds. My mum, she loathes rabbits. Back when she was a kid she’d play with them on the farm. Stroking their backs and chasing them. Like you’d do with anything wrapped in a fluffy white fur. Then grandma would stick a knife inside their belly and serve them with green peas and potatoes. And that’s how love turned into loathe.