May 28th, 2002 - 11:27 p.m.

Two pigeons, the prospect of Wednesday, and a confession

A spectacular duel. Between black and grey. They fight for possession of the letters C and O. Territory makes sense only to the interested parties. The sparrows look on with boredom.

�They are at it again, Jim,� chirps one to the other.

�Yup, at it again, Tim,� the duller one responds.

Beak to beak. The fanning of feathers in an impotent display of height. Frantic noises of talons searching the metal surface for traction. They fight with the fervour of men determined to be the ones to write history.

Then, with one unlucky slip, the loser is defined, only to fly off in a flurry and find his very own C. And settles contentedly, cooing, into his consonant. Yes, much ado about nothing.

I dread Wednesdays. Such a state of inbetween. So very grotesque. Any state of inbetween. It is better to be on the sides. Front, back. Top or bottom. But never the median, the mean. It bores.

�Yeah, a hole in your head! Wait! Boars? Where?� it flaps its ears.

Delicate, tender cruelty is her favourite game. And she is again aching for a victim. She enjoys inflicting superficially. But she refuses to play with these lack lustre playmates. She would not be entertained, and pain might actually be inflicted. And her wits are damaged by exile. Or so she claims.

N.

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