Tonight the fantastic writer Kaylie Jones and I were walking along the street, gabbing about books and authors and the plot of her next novel. We live in the same neighborhood, and our thing is to go for tea and scones at a little place that I don’t think likes us that much because we make a lot of noise. It’s fair to say we’re not the tearoom type.

So we’re heading home, oblivious to almost everything, when a wirey little guy comes up behind us like a gremlin soothsayer. “Don’t stand there!” he cautions. “It’s dangerous!”

Kaylie and I glance at each other. Hoo, boy, only in New York. But Kaylie’s curious. “Why not?”

The gremlin points ominously to the sky. “Pigeon poop!”

And sure enough, we were standing right under the arm of a streetlight, where half a dozen pigeons perched contentedly. He points at the ground. Full of pigeon poop.

“You’re right — thank you, sir!” laughs Kaylie. And we hop obediently two steps into the street, and wait for the light. Another woman comes along, and having observed our shenanigans – pointing, laughing, looking up as if watching for flying saucers – asks what’s going on.

“Pigeon poop!” we say in unison, pointing at the birds. “Don’t stand there!”

She shuffles up beside us, joining in the snickering.

We manage to cross the street without incident, and all three turn back to see our friend, sitting on a wall like a guard in a turret, ready to warn the next group of pedestrians.

Pass it on.

Pooper