Today I buried a pigeon

Still warm, I placed it's broken, melancholy form into the freshly dug hole as the rain fell from the grey skies of a typical English summers day. Was it suicide or was it an accident? The unfortunate bird had struck the window in my mothers house with such force that it was thrown back five feet, landing in a crumpled heap and leaving an eerie ghost-like impression on the glass.

Up to that point it had been an unremarkable day, I had gone round to my mums as I hadn't seen her in weeks and was showing her some family photos on Facebook in another room when we heard the sickening thud, at first it was a mystery we couldn't see what had happened but my mum soon noticed the a strange mark on the window, and it was only then that I looked outside to see the recently deceased avian.

We couldn't just dump it in the bin and we couldn't leave it -- the cats would play with it -- so interment was the only option; a shallow grave, a couple of bricks to (hopefully) stop the foxes and voila!

Then it was back inside for a coffee and biscuits, and a discussion on how the poor little blighter had met it's end, which was inconclusive.

My painting is coming on nicely, my tattoo is itching, there is a pack of oreos which is calling my name.