Imagine the scene:
Just after 10 am, the sun is shining.
I am on the Common with The Boy Child, who is on his bike, and the pooch.
He then stands for the National Anthem, which he heartily sings along to.
I feel the top of my head. Nothing there but my hair.
A quick scan over The Boy Child. Nothing on him, either.
Phew, a close call.
We get home and as I look down to open the gate, I shriek in horror and disgust.
Look away now, if you're the squeamish sort.
That splat sound was the deposit from an airborne pigeon.
With a bullseye on my camera ...
I think people only say that to make you feel better about being cr*pped on.