Pigeons are pigeons, and their affinity for public statues is well-known to city dwellers. The Times of London took it upon itself to survey some of the city's monumental figures and their various states of inundation. William Ewart Gladstone: "The melancholy truth is that [he] does not stand close scrutiny these days. His bared head has been made indecently white by the birds of the Strand." Booze-hating Sir Wilfrid Lawson: "The pigeons have dealt most unkindly [with him]." Poet Robert Burns: "[His] slight defacement merely has the effect of giving him a tearful left eye." The situation in Parliament Square: "Disraeli, Peel and Derby, with the treetops above them, suffer more than Palmerston and Smuts in the open. Yet Lincoln, behind Disraeli (who is worst afflicted of all), seems avoided by the birds in spite of being near a tree."

Things have been quiet in Coon Rapids, Iowa, since the clamorous visit of Nikita Khrushchev in September. Matter of fact, Khrushchev's Iowa host, corn-rich Farmer Roswell Garst, allowed last week that he had not even got a bread-and-butter note from his Soviet acquaintance. But Garst was taking the apparent ingratitude with equanimity: "Probably won't hear from him again until he wants something."

After steaming into a Manhattan pier on the liner Queen Elizabeth, Uganda's formidable King George Rukidi III of Toro, 54, father of 27 children by quite a few wives, was heartily greeted by U.N. Undersecretary Ralph Bunche. Decked out in his black bowler, black jacket and white ekanzu, King George proved to be quite a wit and character. Supreme native ruler in Britain's East African protectorate, His Majesty agreed with newsmen that the morning was quite chilly, then jovially parted his robe to disclose a suit of long underwear. Dr. Bunche will plot George's U.S. itinerary, which will incorporate the King's wish to view a broad swath of the nation.

With the publication in full of the second volume of the gossipy World War II diaries of Britain's Field Marshal Lord Alanbrooke (TIME, Oct. 26), a new ruckus began, lending further mystery to the question of how the Triumph in the West was ever achieved, what with so much apathy and bungling alleged among the highest military brass. On Nov. 24, 1944, Alanbrooke recorded a "very unsatisfactory state of affairs in France, with no one running the land battle." Then he observed: "Eisenhower, though supposed to be doing so, is on the golf links at Reims--entirely detached and taking practically no part in running the war." When these tidings hit the White House, Presidential Press Secretary Jim Hagerty rose wearily, said: "From the time the Allies landed in Europe until the victory was won, the President didn't have a golf club in his hands--much less play at a golf course." At week's end, Alanbrooke hastened to explain: he had not meant, he said, that Ike was actually playing golf just before the critical Battle of the Bulge; he was merely referring to the fact that Ike's headquarters at Reims was on a golf links. Gruffed Alanbrooke: "You might just as well say that I was accusing Eisenhower of drinking champagne because he was at Reims!" During the week, Postwar Golfer Eisenhower also drew fire from that talky old (71) gadfly. Field Marshal Lord Montgomery, who declared that Ike started all the latter-day bickering among Allied generals by publishing his Crusade in Europe. Monty, whose own memoirs plopped dunce's caps on many of his fellow generals, including Eisenhower, then traced the continuing war about the war to General Omar N. (A Soldier's Story) Bradley: "Eisenhower was followed by Bradley and he said some very unpleasant things about me. I accept it all in good humor." Monty also made it clear that he bears no grudge against Ike, no matter what Ike wrote about him. Said Monty: "He is the incarnation of selflessness and sincerity, and I would do anything for him!" War-weary civilians praying that some civilian might have a last (interim) word in the generals' debate were rewarded by a literate book review in the London Observer. After reading Alanbrooke's latest outpouring, the reviewer, Lord Attlee, one of Alanbrooke's greatest admirers, took it upon himself to tell Alanbrooke--and, by implication, all the other shoulder-starred rehashers--to permit World War II to end conclusively in an Allied victory, however illgotten. Understated Attlee: "I doubt, however, whether people will be more conscious of their debt to Alanbrooke, or readier to acknowledge it, as a result of the publication of this book."

Like many an actress whose career has slumped, Evelyn Rudie, 9, known to most folks as TV's brattish Eloise, was in dire need of some new headlines. Next thing that Los Angeles cops knew, Evelyn was reported by her seemingly distraught parents to be missing. Shortly after the police were called, American Airlines announced Evelyn among the "celebrities" on an early morning jet flight from Los Angeles to Baltimore's Friendship International Airport. Upon landing (and being promptly corralled by a family friend), Evelyn calmly hinted that she had done it all for publicity, paid her fare (with a $50 bill and four $20 bills) by looting her own piggy banks. At week's end, Los Angeles cops were wondering whether unemployed Actress Rudie's parents had masterminded Evelyn's flight into the front pages, then turned in a phony police report (a misdemeanor that could get them a $500 fine, six months in jail, or both).

Taking his sports car up on a Manhattan garage elevator, British-born Actor Martyn (Visit to a Small Planet) Green, 60, long a beloved star of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas in London's wide-touring D'Oyly Carte company, had his left leg caught between the rising platform and the elevator shaft. Given morphine by a young intern who soon arrived in an ambulance, Baritone Green, conscious all the time, grittily consented to an immediate amputation of the mangled leg then and there. At week's end he was in "fair" condition, but his twinkle-toed days were history.

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