Seagulls are not my favourite birds. They waken you with their screeching and squawking in the early hours of the morning, they dive bomb you when you’re innocently enjoying an ice cream on the beach, or perching somewhere with your fish and chips, and happily poo all over you whenever they see fit (the myth that this brings good luck does not make it any better).
Having said this, baby seagulls are different. Because they are small, and fluffy and cute and only babies. They are therefore exempt from my seagull rant. Especially the three chicks who are residing on the chimney across the road from our flat.
It’s been a harrowing week. One of the chicks, now known as Steve, toppled out of the nest and is now precariously balancing on the roof top. Every so often, he flaps his little wings, but seems unable to actually fly. His seagull Mum and Dad do not appear to be particularly concerned, meaning that we may need to set up ‘Steve-watch’. My flatmates and I will take it in shifts to watch that Steve does not slip down the wet roof tiles into the claws of the cats circling in the garden below and will rush over with the washing up basin, to catch the chirping ball of fluff. We may also have to devise a system to catapult up some worms, to tide Steve over, until he is able to fly.
Life lessons learnt from this heart-rending experience: I need to find a job, because I clearly have too much time on my hands/ I feel Steve and I have developed a close bond over the past week meaning that I therefore must track his progress.