they say it's good luck

Top right: THE pigeon

We stood, facing the map, the chatter of tourists all around and one hand each on a wheely suitcase.

'Well,' I said confidently, 'we're here.' I pointed to the large piazza in the centre of the map and Marek tilted his head.

'Right, so we need to go along the road that leads off that corner.'

'No, that one surely.'

We looked to opposite sides of the square, squinting to see the road names.

'Didn't we come from this road?' I asked, pointing again at the map.

There was a loud 'thwump' and a slightly sticky lump landed on my outstretched forearm. I looked, and wished I hadn't, as Marek started laughing. Next I turned my attention up, past the prettily crumbling brickwork and old Italian ironwork. Above me, a pigeon's beady eye was fixed firmly on me, as if he were inspecting his target, cooing a smug 'nice shot' in pigeon tongue.

'Wet wipe!' I demanded, and Marek stifled his chuckles as he rooted about in my bag.

It was an auspicious start to the wedding season.