I had no idea what to do with the injured bird I named Belinda. But suddenly 3,000 Mancunians were happy to help, giving me a whole new appreciation of my home town
T
he plane pushed through wall after wall of sleet on its descent into Manchester. I’d had a sinking feeling during the flight that only deepened as I shuffled through the terminal. I resented having to be back in the city where I had grown up, after living on the other side of the world for what had felt like a lifetime.
After a few days, I headed out to get a haircut. My mind was miles away, back across an ocean, when I heard something hit the pavement. I looked down to see a pigeon on its back, spatchcocked, and twitching.
The crash happened just as kids were filing out of the local primary school and so within minutes a small chorus of little ones had formed, flanked by their mums and dads. This circle of bemused faces stared down at the bird, unsure what to say or do. The kids were more definitive: “Daddy, she needs hospital, can we call an ambulance?” I took off my anorak, bent down and scooped the pigeon up into it. “Don’t worry, sweet, the nice man will look after her!” said one mum with a sigh of relief. I had become the ambulance for this pigeon that had just landed abruptly, against its will, as I had a few days before.
