Tuppence a Brag

The Pigeon Man strides through Trafalgar Square, his luminous yellow jacket warding away the tourists of evil, his baseball cap pulled down low, like a duck scowling. He's gonna kick some furry feathered ass today and anyone who gets in his way is gonna regret it. He scatters and shoos the pooing, cooing flying rodents, they flap and clatter into the air, rearranging themselves alphabetically, and settle back down in indifference. He snatches chunks of bread and handfuls of chips from rosy-glowed freshly-mowed children barely the height of his knee, they burst into tears and he scolds them for their innocence. He struts around, chest puffed out, arms waving, defending his concrete garden for all he's worth. What kind of crazy place is this where a man earns his crust refusing birds theirs? How does this guy live with himself? Does he go to the pub and tell long, drawn out, boring pigeony stories? 'You should have seen the size of this one! As big as a house if it wasn't a day...' What does he put on his CV? Pigeon Repellant? Urban Nuisance Relocatement Officer? Shit Stirrer? Or does he just go home, put his feet up, flick on the football and pretend everything is Ok?