When I wake up for the second time my hangover has mostly abated, and there is a pigeon nesting on the roof. I can hear it cooing continuously, like a proud and unceasing car alarm. Thumping my bedroom window closed does nothing to disturb it, nor does slamming the balcony door open. I grumpily venture into the grey outside, and realise why. The pigeon isn’t my lodger, but the lodger of the next flat along. I text them a hey, you’ve got pigeons nesting in your roof. Through the wall I hear a message ping, and a loud oh fuck.
Helen Biggs is an antipodean writer residing in south London. She is interested in the ways we move in and out of others’ lives. Instagram: @helenisrad.