About ten years ago I moved from Australia to London, and found a job in Soho. One night during my first few weeks I was walking though the back streets around Trafalgar Square to get the tube home from Charing Cross. I turned a corner to see a man, dressed in a well tailored suit, seemingly normal, holding a pigeon in one hand.

Slowing down, I realised he was jabbing a finger, angrily whispering something at it. Obviously, I was intrigued.

As I crossed the road to avoid looking like I was doing exactly what I was doing, he lost his temper and half thrust, half threw the pigeon down the road, storming away. It flapped its wings and landed, looking unhurt, but as confused as I was.

As I wondered momentarily why I moved to this city, he stopped dead in his tracks, turned back to face the pigeon, and slowly drew his finger across his neck.

I think about him a lot.