Here in Hastings we are, each with our own dreads, hanging in that moment between winter and the squealing time. I speak of course of the seagull mating season. Many years ago this was over fairly quickly but now, as one of it’s few downsides, climate change has altered all that by pepping up the ardour of the male gull who has just spent many months wrapped in boredom on the side of a wet cliff. All the ensuing roof top rumpy-pumpy also leads your typical gull to need a lot of energy, hence they eat more. The sad side effect of this activity means many cars end up looking like black & white African termite hills after just a couple of weeks.
There was a time the gull had to work for food; fighting monstrous seas to catch the odd odd cod who thought that jumping out of the water constitutes a “space attempt”. Not any more; at best they fly down but more usually take the West Hill lift, to Old Town then strut about engrossed in method acting till tons of battered fish is thrown at them from an audience gagging with cloying gratitude.
But, like all things explained, you suddenly realised there’s much to envy in this master of adaptive existence.
“I’ve worked with De Niro you know”
Steve