Latin and Pigeon Poo
To the Editor,
I write to you today under a dark and perplexing cloud, brought on by two equally troubling pieces of news. First, the report that state school pupils in England may soon lose the opportunity to study Latin as funding is withdrawn. And second, the personal tragedy of a bird, with the precision of a trained archer, pooing directly onto my charming hat during this morning’s walk.
Let us first address Latin. The language of Cicero, Caesar, and countless confusing mottoes carved into dusty old buildings — how could we allow it to fall by the wayside? If Latin goes, what becomes of our ability to mutter phrases like et cetera and carpe diem with an air of intellectual superiority? Worse still, how will future generations know the subtle joy of translating Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres and then immediately forgetting what it means?
But before I could fully mourn the potential demise of the lingua Latina, I was rudely interrupted by an unholy splat. Looking up in disbelief, I spotted a smug-looking pigeon perched on a branch above me, no doubt congratulating itself on what must have felt like a masterpiece of aerial accuracy. My hat — my lovely hat, the one I wear to appear charming and just a little mysterious — was now a casualty in this avian act of vandalism.
Naturally, I can’t help but feel these two events are connected. Could this pigeon, in its own feather-brained way, have been protesting the loss of Latin? After all, birds are deeply traditional creatures; they’ve been tweeting in the same language for millennia. Perhaps it mistook my hat for a Roman senator’s laurel wreath and decided to express its disapproval in the only way it knew how.
Or perhaps the fault lies with me. Maybe, in my ignorance of Latin, I failed to interpret a warning from the gods — a divine message that pigeons are now the custodians of classical education. Was the bird’s deposit some sort of celestial * memento mori, reminding me of the fleeting nature of knowledge and clean headwear alike?
Either way, the situation feels dire. Without Latin, how will children learn that semper ubi sub ubi means always wear underwear (sort of)? And without my charming hat, how will I convince people in Dartford that I am a person of sophistication and depth?
For now, I remain in despair, both for the fate of our students and for the fate of my hat, which sits forlornly on the kitchen counter awaiting a thorough scrub. If anyone in town has a good Latin phrase for "I’ve been pooed on by a pigeon," please send it my way.
Yours, feathered and flummoxed,
Horatio Cumberplume
(Pigeon victim, Latin advocate, and reluctant hat washer)