The Fallen Seagull

Yesterday, walking from work to the pub, we came across a fluffy fledgling seagull who had fallen from his roost.

He crossed the road and plodded hither and tither, confused by the strange, new surroundings. I ushered him safely onto the pavement with my foot and he seemed to join the flow of people, as if that's what he figured he should do.

Considering the fact that his short life gave him no point of reference, no rationale for existence, I imagined he assumed we were all seagulls too. Perhaps there was hope, then. If he observed our behaviour closely I reckon he could use the self-check out in no time (I bet he even has an oyster card).

But it's tough for fluffy vermin like him, misunderstood by society.

Yet, to my surprise I saw him today, huddled in a bivouac by the river, a small fire on the go. He looked wobbly on his legs and unsure of his new neighbours, the Mallards. I pulled the end off my baguette stick and chucked it down piece by piece. The ducklings scrambled over and devoured the crumbs around his legs before his weak neck was able to bring his head to the floor. He looked back up at me as if to say, "how am I supposed to eat this?! Is there no hope?". So I jumped down and was sick in his gob, cos that's all he knows

At this point some cello concerto shuffled onto my ipod, his black eyes held my gaze and we shared a profound connection. It was probably the most profound thing I've felt all week, for profoundness comes around but rarely for me and it's usually when I'm reading hungover.

...Perhaps in the future, when he turns into a right old bastard, the sort that screams at your window at 5am, people will ask me if I would go back in time and kill him if I could.

No, seagulls are people too.

Best this way!