As I step away from Bob’s counter,
With freshly caught crab sandwich
(The crab, not the sandwich),
Clutched firmly in my hand
For fear of avian ambush,
I am swiftly joined by an adult gull –
We will call him “Sid” –
(Because he is no ordinary gull,
As we shall soon discover),
Who plants himself
At a respectful distance
Professing no interest in the carton
Of half eaten fish and chips
Lounging seductively and dangerously
On the adjoining table.
As I take my first bite,
He does that endearing seagull trick
Of pretending to avert his eyes
Whilst slyly tracking the course
The sandwich takes
Between my hand and mouth.
A staring contest ensues,,
I for one not daring to take my eyes off
My inscrutable guest for one second.
I try to rationalise with Sid:
“Feeding you is not good for you,
In fact it’s cruel;
You will get ill if you
Persist in eating human food”.
After shooing off an interloping chick,
He replies:
“Crab is hardly human food”,
“I’ve been eating it for years
And it’s never done me any harm”.
Taken aback by this surprising development,
I take another, more censorious, tack:
“But you ransack our waste bins
And leave the contents strewn everywhere
In your search for our leftovers”.
Sid remains unimpressed and,
After what he thinks is
A surreptitious but unsuccessful
Jab at my sandwich,
Exclaims:
“Well, that’s down to you people
Not putting your bins our properly;
We wouldn’t take the food if it
Was securely tied and hidden away,
We can’t be blamed for
Your slapdash behaviour”.
Irritated that he appeared to
Have an answer for everything,
I resolved to play the excreta card,
That had to be the clincher:
“You have an unfortunate propensity”
(I had decided by now that
He was an educated sort of chap
And would understand such long words),
”For shitting everywhere too,
On our windows, our cars,
And even ours kids, at times’’.
Sid took particular umbrage at this slur:
“Well, on that point, don’t you humans
Claim that it is lucky?
So I can’t fathom your problem here;
And we’re only doing what comes naturally,
We’ve been doing it for thirty million years,
And besides if you didn’t leave so much
Of your crap like pizza and chips lying around,
Our evacuations might not be
As copious or disagreeable”.
And before I have time to respond,
He tilts his head and
Turns on the full charm offensive
By saying:
“But come on, admit it, we are cute,
Aren’t we?”
“The way we sashay around,
Our endlessly amusing repertoire
Of squawks and screeches,
And the way we mate for life
And look after our kids
(Much better than some of you),
You can’t deny it really, can you?”
I admit defeat gracefully and pass him
My final mouthful of crab sandwich
In acknowledgement of his victory.
As I fold the wrapping,
Being careful to place it
In the nearest available bin,
He flaps his wings,
Checks for any orphan crumbs
Or juicy looking dog ends,
And scoots perilously past me,
Grazing my left ear,
In pursuit of more sympathetic diners.
Tony Quarrington 