In a corner of Fitzrovia in London, there’s a park with a small children’s playground, some benches, a few trees. It’s so small it has no name and shows on no maps. People take their lunch here and enjoy an oasis in their day. Bike messengers use it as their place to hang out when not out on jobs and swap stories about close calls with buses and old ladies. A choir filming their Christmas promo video sang “In The Bleak Midwinter” to an audience of office workers and pigeons.
Ahh, the pigeons, the only permanent residents of this space. They squabble over the crumbs, fat and lumbering. Lording over them all is King Pigeon; the fattest, loudest, most violent. His wings are clipped, he can’t fly so he punches them with his stubby wings and hops on his club foot.
And they obey.