Am being haunted by pigeons again. Not ghosts of past pigeon culls at Brighton station but their very much alive and flapping descendants.

A couple of weeks ago was alarmed to hear end of radio report which said Connex had abandoned plans to solve problems of overcrowding by shooting. Alarm was short-lived when I discovered it was not commuters but pigeons who were targets of crowd reduction marksmen and anyway plans had been well and truly ditched.

Though, when pigeon decided to deposit contents of its bottom on my newly dry cleaned jacket, I rather wished they'd gone ahead, instead of looking for more humane ways to reduce pigeon population. Apparently Connex is now working closely with PCAS - pronounced Pie-cass - which sounded suspiciously like conciliation service used in industrial disputes to bridge gap between managers and trade unionists.

Imagine talks breaking down between Connex staff and pigeons: "Quite frankly," (Connex staff) "This isn't the 1970s and you can't expect full perch opportunities for every one of you. We're asking you to be more flexible and for some of you to flap outside the station premises."

"We know our rights . . ." (pigeon representative) "We've been working here since before you were born and, if you try to get rid of us, we'll take over the ticket office and threaten your financial viability."

"Well, if that's your position . . ."

"Coo, coo - It is . . ."

"Then, I have no alternative but to call in the conciliation service Pie-cass."

Above imaginings prove how bored one can get, when stuck at a signal, with nothing more interesting to look at than the inside of the Clayton tunnel. Actually, PCAS, which stands for the Pigeon Control and Advisory Service, has merely been recommending humane ways of controlling pigeons, such as replacing their eggs with china ones (presumably, so the broody mums die of natural causes while waiting for their eggs to hatch) or providing them with alternative accommodation, charmingly called, "a pigeon hotel."

Was trying, not very successfully, to amuse rest of office with above account of pigeon conciliation service, when editor walked in: "I need one of you to go to Blackpool next month." She's planning a feature on: "Why we need light in our lives" for Christmas issue of magazine, and has bizarre idea to interview designers of Christmas and other illuminations, hence need for someone to go to Blackpool.

Not having had a summer holiday, I volunteered for excursion and set about booking myself a hotel - task which proved harder than had first anticipated. "Sorry love we're fully booked . . . " I was told, at least six times, before I asked: "But why? It's not summer. It's not Christmas. It's not the party conference. So, why are there no hotels in Blackpool?"

"You've picked pigeon week, love . . ." The landlady of the bed and breakfast in Lytham St Anne's, which I had resorted to calling, told me: "All the pigeon fanciers from all over the world will be here. The place will be full of them. Now let me see. I've got someone from the Isle of Man, and his bird in my double. But I could squeeze you into the single."

"You'll just have to take plenty of spare clothes," said editor, unsympathetically, when I pleaded to let me go a different week. "And if you can't find a room, you could always find one of those pigeon hotels, couldn't you?"