It’s the season of gifts and good will… but I didn’t expect to receive a gift from above as I stood on Derby station last night…
As I felt it land on my head, instantly, I knew it wasn’t a raindrop. When I looked up, the bird seemed peaceful, having just deposited waste out of its back end without caring what it hit. Or who.
The pigeon had found a home for the night in the relative warmth of the rafters on the station platform. I, on the other hand, was already freezing and now I had bird poop daubed on the back of my head, oozing down my hair.
No tissue left in bag. Quick, use the freebie magazine I’d taken to sit on, to make those cold steel slatted seats bearable. It was too late in the evening for newspapers, so I’d found a brochure with a glossy cover. Except now it was a substitute tissue for scraping off excrement. I couldn’t risk finding a toilet with a mirror — not that I’d see anything as the muck was coating the back of my head — because the train was due in six minutes. It would be just my luck if I was stuck in the toilet while the train shot away… and I’d have to pay hundreds of pounds for a new ticket because it wasn’t the right train. Ridiculous that. You should pay the same price whether you book in advance, or have emergency bird poop on your head and have to dash to the bathroom to clean up.
I had a 2 ½ hour journey in front of me. I tried not to look at people as I pushed my bag down the narrow aisle, and hoped they weren’t looking at me. As bird droppings are traditionally white and my hair is not, if some was clinging to my head, everyone would see. And be secretly laughing at me. Or feeling sorry for me.
A window seat! No-one next to me. Result! I didn’t feel up to talking. Not that most people do talk to random strangers nowadays. We’re told not to. Except I do. Usually. Just not now that I’ve got bird poop stuck to my hair.
As my head came into contact with the back of the seat, I remembered the David Attenborough programme I’d seen a couple of weeks ago. About a bear rubbing his back against a tree. Planet Earth. I can’t remember the exact title, as there are so many. He’s great — probably still be on TV when he’s 100, reporting on extinct species!
Anyway, back to the bear. He was standing up, leaning against the tree, trying to rid himself of itchy summer fur. Like I needed to rid myself of the unwanted gift. He did a kind of dance, wiggling his body from side to side. I couldn’t resist copying. Pretending to look at the view, I turned my head to gaze out of the opposite window, and back again — that kind of movement. Which was a bit silly, as it was pitch black outside; but as most of the passengers were stuck on their tablets or phones, I think I got away with my strange behaviour.
I did feel a twinge of guilt, thinking of the next person who’d be sitting on this seat. But as it was the last train of the night, any little mark would have time to dry — and if there was a stray bit of white powder, they would just think it was dandruff. Which I have to admit, I dislike seeing. Perhaps we should all bring a pack of tissues and wipe seat covers before we sit down? Or have a shower afterwards like I did? But I figured that the train might be cleaned before morning; and in any case, people would be too busy/ focused/ stressed or bleary-eyed in rush hour. Planning their day… drinking a caffeine boost… thinking of the person they had just said goodbye to… or not thinking of the person they had just said goodbye to. Preoccupied anyway. Not alert enough to notice a white sprinkling on the red cushioned seat.
I hope I was right.
P.S. I’m not telling you the seat number just in case…