Gut Feelings: Shona Kinloch's pigeon sculptures

Waiting outside the bus, you kill time showing the driver your phone background, which has at one time been photos of three different girlfriends, back when that was still something, and which is now a statue of a fat pigeon that lives on the end of your street. You have what you think of as a standard amount of opinions about statues, which is to say not too many. At school, you and your friend invented an app called 'Who’s That Lad?', which would tell you stuff about every man bronzed up on a horse somewhere, and what he actually did to get put there. One murder or several; just another big stick holding something up. Much better just to have the horses, you thought, or the seagulls and a big old traffic cone, cut out the middleman.

And here they are! Round as bowling balls, little loaves brunching with all the cafe punters. You’d never steal one but you kind of get it. Picture one sat in your lap and it’s hard not to imagine it warm.

After the breakup, you write a lot of poems addressed to the city, which is a bit embarrassing, but who can blame you: with those narrow lanes and choked-up buses, she’s just your kindred spirit poster girl for being overwhelmed, even by things you already knew were going to happen.

The fat pigeons don’t belong to anyone really – not even the stolen ones, which you think of naïvely on someone’s coffee table, watching daytime telly forever. It’s just like saying, oh, this is my stop, or, that’s my upstairs neighbour, or, that’s the 'Trans Joy Prevails!' graffiti outside my house that I guarded for months from defacement with a toothbrush. Now you’ve moved and someone else does it.

You don’t tell the driver any of this. He shows you a picture from Kilmarnock: more statues, same artist. Fat dogs with rolypoly tails. Fucking class.