A Postcard From... Brighton

It’s 12.30PM and you’ve just left your conference to grab lunch. The venue is right on the beach front, so you cross the road and treat yourself to fish and chips. The woman at the fish and chip van asks you if it’s “for here or to go?”

“To go,” you say. You’re going to eat your chips in the sun, sitting on pebbles and listening to the waves crash.

“You’ll need a bag then.” She hands you a paper one. “For the seagulls…"

You ignore the foreshadowing, slip your polystyrene tray into your newly acquired paper bag, and head off to the beach.

You’re spotted.

As soon as you plonk yourself down and expose your chips to the air, the seagulls come a looking. Pretty soon you’re surrounded by them, but you ignore them and hope for the best. Your chips are hot and greasy and swimming in vinegar.

There’s a squawk from behind you and you turn to see the culprit staring at your chips with beady eyes. You frown menacingly, but they aren’t looking at you. Just what you have in your hands.

You turn back just in time.

You’d taken your eyes off of the chips (rookie mistake) and a crafty seagull takes advantage and chooses to swoop. Luckily for you, you’d turned around just in time for you both to make horrendous eye contact. There’s arm flapping (from you), wing flapping (from the seagull), and screaming (from you both).

You slip the chips back into their paper bag and retreat back to the safety of the café.

“Seagulls?” The woman says knowingly.

“Seagulls.”