There were sandwiches down there on the promenade. Ice creams too. And drinks in strange cardboard cups, but I didn’t care as much about them; they were too far too hot. I could drink seawater, although it wasn’t as nice as a fresh coke. Water. It wasn’t as nice as fresh water.
That happens from time to time; I forget what I like, and think I like human things. Not sandwiches or ice creams, of course; all of my kind like those foods. But bananas. I once thought I liked bananas. And chicken, but that was disturbing; I had wondered for ages if that was a form of cannibalism. I was never able to properly answer that one, so I did my very best to avoid thinking about it any more.
Ice cream and sandwiches. Oh, and fish and chips. Food – good food for seagulls like me – was everywhere, carried by people who, from this angle, were the tops of heads. I knew vaguely that people didn’t just exist like that, but they all looked the same to me – especially from this angle.
I could crap on so many of them if I flew down and aimed just at the right angle.
My body knew when I need to do my business, and I despaired at so many of my kind, just mindlessly crapping out their poo anywhere and everywhere. They needed to be so much more strategic about it; they could have so much more fun if they just gave it a little thought.
I can say this now. I hated being crapped on when I was a sandwich-carrier and a buyer of ice creams.
No. No. I wasn’t one of them. I never was. I am a seagull. A hum … seagull.
I have wings. A beak. A desire to crap on the fish-and-chip-eaters down below. I can’t be one of them. Not any more.
What’s wrong with me?