Coocoo’s Last Crumb: A Pigeon’s Perilous Predicament in Post-Fiat London

Greetings, featherless bipeds! My name is Coocoo, and I am, or rather, was, a connoisseur of the finer things in London life. My days were a symphony of discerning discarded chips, artfully dodging double-deckers, and, most importantly, orchestrating the acquisition of those glorious, crinkly green rectangles and shimmering metallic discs you humans so carelessly shed. Ah, fiat! The very word used to make my little pigeon heart flutter with anticipation. But alas, dear readers, those halcyon days are gone. Vanished. Poof! Like a particularly elusive baguette crumb in a strong gust of wind.

I remember a time, not so long ago, when a stroll through Trafalgar Square was a veritable treasure hunt. A dropped penny here, a forgotten fiver there – each a potential ticket to a feast of dropped sandwich crusts. My nest, a truly magnificent architectural marvel under a particularly sturdy eaves, was lined with the softest, most aesthetically pleasing ten-pound notes. They provided excellent insulation, a certain je ne sais quoi, and frankly, made my rival, Reginald, green with envy. Now? My nest is lined with… well, mostly newspaper. The indignity!

The humans, bless their peculiar little hearts, have gone mad. They tap on glowing rectangles, wave their wrists, and suddenly, transactions are complete! Where’s the satisfying clink? The reassuring rustle? The sheer joy of finding a twenty-pound note that’s clearly been rejected by a clumsy ATM? It’s all gone digital, they say. “Cryptocurrency,” “blockchain,” “NFTs”… these words are flung about like stale bread by an overly enthusiastic tourist. What good is a ‘non-fungible token’ to a pigeon? Can I peck at it? Can I use it to bribe a seagull for prime scavenging rights near Borough Market? I think not!

My entire economic model has been shattered. My business plan, meticulously crafted over generations of urban survival, relied on the physical manifestation of your wealth. Now, when a human drops something, it’s invariably their ‘phone’ – a device far too heavy and unappetizing for my delicate beak. The crumbs are fewer, the dropped snacks scarcer, and the general air of financial negligence that once sustained my kind has evaporated into the ether of digital transactions. It’s a tragedy, I tell you! A feathery, flapping tragedy!

So, as I perch here on a cold, unforgiving lamppost, watching the oblivious masses tap away at their screens, I shed a single, dramatic tear (which, given my avian physiology, is mostly just eye-gunk). Oh, fiat! My beloved, tangible, utterly peckable fiat! How I lament your demise. Perhaps one day, a benevolent human will accidentally drop a physical wallet full of old, forgotten cash. Until then, I suppose I’ll have to consider a career in performance art. Or perhaps, just perhaps, I’ll learn to hack into their Wi-Fi for crumbs. A pigeon’s gotta eat, after all.