The Gulls

CHAPTER 4 – The Story So Far

I love the gulls. I love the way they look in the night sky. I love the way they don’t care. I love the noise they make. I love the way they just do what they want. What I like most about the gulls is they don’t care what we think. They don’t do that cute “Oooh tickle my tummy” cuddly animal thing. They don’t care. They don’t care about anything except gulls.

“I’m going to sit here and do nothing. I’m going to shout and make as much noise as I want. There’s a bin liner. I’m going to rip that bag open. See what’s in it. Make a mess. Look, a car coming out of the carwash. Good. I needed a poo. I can do anything I like and no one can stop me.”
I love the gulls. They’re masters of the universe.

A couple of years ago I was talking to the bloke next door. Generally, he’s a top man, a good neighbour. Goes on holiday a lot. Anyway, he had one of those “pleased with myself” looks. I asked him what he was looking pleased about.

“We had a seagull nest on the roof. Bloody things, but I’ve got them. I got this piece of wood, about a metre square, and banged a load of nails through it. Then I went up and carefully put it under the seagull nest. You can’t have bloody seagulls nesting on the roof. The noise, the mess…”

So anyway, I went up to my attic and had a look out at the neighbour’s house. And smiled. There on his roof – and this is a true story, I swear – was this piece of wood with nails sticking through it. And next to it was a carefully constructed seagull nest, complete with gull.

Anyway, the reason I’m talking about this is, to paraphrase Mrs Thatcher, we’ve just become a godfather.

I work in the attic of our house. So one day I’m sitting there, writing, well, thinking, planning what I’m going to write, and I hear a bit of squawking. OK, so hearing a gull squawk isn’t exactly “Hold the front page” stuff but this was, I don’t know, a different kind of squawking. Reluctantly I dragged myself away from my keyboard and looked out of the window.

And there she was. Sitting on a perfectly made pile of twigs and leaves like a queen on a throne. The proudest look on her face. Kvelling like only a mother can kvell. Just above her, on the chimney stack, was the old man. Chest puffed out, and on the lookout. Keeping it safe. Trying to look important and ready for action. He saw me and we looked at each other. I held his gaze and we nodded. An understanding. (Listen, I know we’re deep in men’s group stuff – Iron John stuff - here, but bear with me). I’ve been through this. I know what he’s thinking and I know what she’s thinking.
He’s thinking “I’m going to be a dad. I can do anything. I’m going to rip some bin liners open. I can do anything I like.”
She’s thinking “God knows how that happened with that idiot who spends his life with his head in a rubbish bag. Still, if he gets me some food I’ll be nice to him.”

I went downstairs and got some bread. Immediately Jane was onto me.
“I thought you were going wheat free? Really, what is the point of… You’re giving it to a seagull?”
It was OK. She understood.

He’s almost tame now, the old man. Comes to the window and sits. Picks up my bits of food and checks his sudoko grids. Mostly though he sits there on the chimney stack making seagull noises and trying to look useful.

A couple of weeks ago, I looked out of the window, saw the parents and there, in the nest, was a small fluffy spotty head sticking up. Fine. All good. Then… nothing. For nearly two weeks I didn’t see anything. No small fluffy spotty head, nothing. I couldn't quite see into the nest, couldn't quite see what was going on, but you’d think that he’d have had a look around. It might well be that the baby was having a bit of a rest. Pecking out of a shell must be an exhausting business. But I was worried. Maybe - and I hadn't considered this - the baby has been bought by Chelsea. I did read something about that in the tabs and, thinking about it, it is true that Mourinho's team don't have a baby seagull in their line-up.

Anyway, this morning there he was. He looks awkward, like a kiwi – go and look it up on the web. All bottom and no wings. Waddling around on our roof while the parents look on, thinking that this is the best looking, cutest thing on any roof in the whole of Brighton.

“I know everyone probably says that, Henry” says the mother. “But just look at him. “I think he’s got my beak. And maybe your ears.”

“That’s very funny. My ears. That’s very funny. I wonder” says Henry. “Do you think maybe we should get him signed up for an ad agency?”

We’ve moved on from bread - apparently she’s on some no carbs diet. And I’m throwing out all different stuff now. I know what gulls eat because I know what they leave behind when they rip open the bin liners and basically, you know, they don’t leave anything behind. Jane said – and very funny, this – “Maybe you should make some tiny black bin liners for the baby to practice on”.

She’s still not moved. Every so often she gives the old man a hard time and he does that useless bloke shrug we all do. I look at them. They look at me. It’s going to be a good summer.