My dad met me for lunch today. We’d finished eating and were sat in companionable silence, when Dad remembered something from his idyllic morning (all his mornings are idyllic now he’s retired).

“You know,” he started, leaning back in his chair. “I went into the garden today and one of the pigeons was having a bath.”

“Which pigeon?” I asked. “One of the pretty grey wood pigeons?”

Dad shook his head.

“No. That skanky old town pigeon. He moved to the countryside from the city and now he thinks he’s all that because he’s gone up in the world. He was having a bath and I walked by, quite close, and he just didn’t care.”

“He’s got no shame,” I said.

“No,” Dad agreed. “That’s the trouble with the nouveau riche.”

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