Ode to Seagulls

I love seagulls. I went to Flatholme island courtesy of my husband. It's a conservation island given mainly over to seagulls. They're actually an endangered species. It seems strange to think so, when you can't seem to move for seagulls nowadays, and gone are the times when you'd only see them on beaches, but they traditionally migrate for several years until they're adults, and the recent growth of litter in the cities means that they'd much rather hang about and eat junk food than do all that wing-work. So they hang around, and eat lots of nasties, and get botulism. Seagulls eat a lot of nasties, including each other. I can't decribe to you the feeling of horror you get when you're walking along, and the grass gets a little, crunchy, and you find that you just trod on a bird skull. With bits of flesh still on it.

Anyway, I digress. The main reason I love seagulls is because they look so angry all the time. They have this expression of pure annoyance, like the little old lady who's just come out to yell at the children for trampling all over her begonias. And you can see it all building up til it gets too much for them, and they just throw their heads back, open up their throats, and let out this long, gutteral screech. They put their whole heart into that screech. And then they fly off to bully some pigeons.

The best characterisation of a seagull has be Kehaar from Watership Down, a book that far too few people have read. Here's an extract.

The creature in the hollow was a bird - a big bird, nearly a foot long...The white part of its back, which they had glimpsed through the grass, was in fact only the shoulders and the neck. The lower back was light grey and so were the wings, which tapered to long, black-tipped primaries folded together over the tail. The head was very dark brown - almost black - in such sharp contrast to the white neck that the bird looked as though it were wearing a kind of hood. The one dark-red leg that they could see ended in a webbed foot and three powerful, taloned toes. The beak, hooked lightly downwards at the end, was strong and sharp. As they stared it opened, disclosing a red mouth and throat. The bird hissed savagely and tried to strike, but still did not move.
As they squatted, looking at the bird...it suddenly burst into loud, raucous cries - 'Yark! Yark! Yark' - a tremendous sound at close quarters - that split the morning and carried far across the down...

"You hurt? You no fly?"
The answer was a harsh gabbling which they all felt immediately to be exotic. Wherever the bird came from, it was somewhere far away. The accent was strange and gutteral, the speech distorted. They could only catch a word here and there.
"Come keel - kah! kah! - you come keel - yark! - t'ink me finish - me no finish - 'urt you dam' plenty."

"You hurt?" said Hazel.
The bird looked crafty. "No hurt. Plenty fight. Stay small time, den go."
"You stay there you finish, " said hazel. "Bad place. Come homba, come kestrel."
"Dam de lot. Fight plenty."
"I bet it would, too," said Bigwig, looking with admiration at the two-inch beak and thick neck.
"We no want you finish," said Hazel. "You stay here you finish. We help you maybe."
"Piss off."

Why parks in cities make me sad.

I just got back from a hen party in Dartmoor. It was lovely, and I'll write about it as soon as I get some photographs worthy of the event. But, as we were wandering o'er hill and dale, I was trying to explain to someone why I hate walking in city parks. And it's because they remind me of what I'm missing. I grew up in the countryside, and there were fields, meadows, stretches of trees, and those scents which merge to create the atmosphere of something very, well , natural going on. You could walk for hours without seeing a single person, catch glimpses of foxes and sometimes deer, and witness nature just getting on with it. In Cardiff, it's hard to find a stretch of park or lake without coming across someone who thought of it before you, and it's hard to feel the sheer exuberance and fertility of spring when the scene is fenced in, the borders patrolled by the muted sound of traffic. Don't get me wrong, I would rather have the parks there than not - I would love to fill the city with as much greenery as it could contain. But my appreciation is marred by a certain amount of underlying envy. To walk through a park in a city is to catch a poor reflection of something very wonderful that is going on somewhere else, and I'm missing it.

Save the cheerleader. Save the world.

On friendship (a post-pub meditation)

I'm going through a bit of a transitional period at the moment, what with changing cities, changing jobs, and adjusting to the idea of sharing a life with someone, even when they eat the last of the chorizo. What with hen parties, weddings and a general nostalgia that's been creeping over me, and prompting me to search out old acquaintances, I've been struck by friendships, how they change and grow.
I've heard people express the opinion before, and I heard it again in conversation tonight, that when you lose touch with people you once considered a friend, it's usually with good reason, and you should consider them a friend lost. Now I'm appalling when it comes to keeping in touch with people when I have no occasion to prompt me to contact them. A lot of it is sheer apathy on my part, and for that I have no defense. But I don't consider for a moment that, having lost contact with them, that it's an indicator of a friendship not worth continuing.
I think that friendships, like any relationship, find their fulfilment when you consider another as important, not just because of the feeling that they bring or how the other person relates to you. It comes when you recognise that this person is important simply because they are. Even if you were to cease to exist tomorrow, then this person would continue to be important. Once you realise this, a friendship becomes more than the sum of its two parts.
Friendship is not only something to be established, it also needs to be maintained. It more resembles a growing tree than a static sculpture.It takes time and effort to ensure that a relationship succeeds, and it's no wonder that many fade and some fail. And in many cases, that transition is necessary - there is not enough room in our lives to contain all the worthwhile friendships that we have encountered, and continue them at the same pitch of intensity, especially when we move away from each other. We may be guilty of neglecting our relationships, but we musn't draw the line there, and make the mistake of throwing the baby out with the bathwater. It's not too late to restore that bond. Not always as it was, but in some form. And when you approach it with the perspective that each of these people who you once encountered is important in their own right, then each contact re-established becomes a new joy, an unearthed treasure - a person rediscovered.

I realised something else during my pub chat. Sometimes you come across friendships that are like yew trees. The yew tree is a cunning evergreen, capable of reaching extraordinary ages, with the ability to grow at varying rates, depending on when the right nutrients are available. They can even remain dormant for hundreds of years, and then continue to grow at a steady pace when the conditions become favourable.I remember reading an account of a man who had met a colleague at a weekend convention, and they became instant friends. Twenty years later, they met up for a second time, both married and with families in tow, and it was as though their conversation took off right where they had left it, twenty years before. To be part of such a friendship is a reassuring thing.

WildWake & I'M AXed

For those of you who wanted a copy of it, below is the poem I wrote to mark the closure of the best bits of At-Bristol. Shame on you if you never went, you missed out on Tom Cruise the Diver, and poison arrow frogs.


So, the day has arrived, and all too soon,
We've taken our very last Walk On The Moon,
And since we're all gathered, the last to the first,
It seems fitting to mark the occasion with verse;
But I'm quite new at this, so forgive me my....skurple
For failing to find a good rhyme here for "purple".
It's time now for tears, but please don't despair,
No matter what we do next, or where -
Save the world, turn to crime, get a proper career,
Or stay on in Explore (as a volunteer) -
Remember At-Bristol, engrave in your hearts
All the quirks and the values that set it apart.
The friendships, the fun, the odd party (or two),
Bosses that made it their job to serve you,
The passion for nature, and science, and art,
And treating each guest as a person apart.
These make up for those things, against which some may rage,
Like the working weekends and the minimum wage.
So, if your next job seems that little bit grey,
Remember that you needn't be that way.
Be yourself, change the rules. It'll work! No, it will!
(Failing that we can always meet up in King Bill).
So good luck to you all, and remember this - wurple;
Whatever you do in life, do it in purple.

In Memoriam

I sometimes think about death, it being one of those things that you can't really avoid. Not for long, anyway. I hate the idea of a wasted death. I'm not entirely sure what I mean by that, but it has something to do wih being pointless and futile. Not necessarily the death itself, because by the time I die I won't care how it happened. It's funny, but the thing that worries me is how my death wil be received by the people who knew me. I suppose my big fear in death is that of life - firstly, that I'll be myself, and secondly, that people won't misunderstand that. Like CS Lewis remarked on the death of his wife - people get their own impression of who you were once you're dead, and you're not around to correct them.

On the other hand, I wouldn't mind pointless death of a humorous kind. It would be quite funny to see people trying to relate the sad news while stifling giggles. My favourite so far is geting hit by a giant cheese. I mentioned it to Neil once. I think he might have made some arrangements.

A Philosophy on Life (and sandwiches)

This is actually my third attempt at keeping a blog (although the second attempt was only created because I wanted to leave a comment with someone else. And the first attempt was started in Spain, and how can you be expected to slave away behind a hot computer screen when there's so much free tapas to be had?). As usual, the decision came with impeccble timing, as it also came on the eve of my starting a new job, marking the end of my nocturnal lifestyle.

It all started with philosohy. I was sat in Mack, enjoying a post-service lunch. It was the day after Chris and Angela's wedding, possibly the most joyful event I've been to (including my own wedding, but then I think your own wedding is designed to be something that you worry through, and then look back on fondly.) And the day after was just as joyous - there was food, drink, friends and visitors, and everything was basking in a kind of contented glow. I was enjoying some light intellectual dinner conversation at a table of people which included the Williamson brothers and Peter. We talked of art, and muic, and the first CDs we ever bought. I was just engaging Andrew on the subject of the best way to eat cheese, when Dave intervened by sticking something down his back.

Our conversation may have been short-lived, but it reminded me of a philosophy that I once developed, probably on one of my early morning commutes. I was disappointed not to share such an enlightening piece with my friends, especially as it could possibly have changed their lives. This thought so saddened me that I threw aside my earlier apathy and reluctance to start a blog, and devoted myself to hours of meditative reflection and internet research. What does it matter that I forego the washing up, that I abandon the sweeping of floors, if in doing so I contribute to the betterment of mankind? And what better way to share that news than by creating a blog and making all my friends read it? So here it is, dear reader.

A "Crusts First" Philosophy of Life.
Deceptively simple. When faced with any plate of food, you have a choice - you can either go for the food you like most, or the food you like least.(1) Now, it may seem like a simple choice - who wants to fill up on the less desirable food? Yet there is another way.
My approach springs from that most common of foods: the sandwich. Now if you follow wholesome youngs boys in bread adverts, then the best way to eat a sandwich is to grab it in both hands and take a sizeable bite out of the middle. This is fine for the first bite, but then you're still hungry, and all you're left with is a semicircle of crust with a few soft bits of bread. You suffer through the rest of the sandwich, for the sake of a cheap thrill in the preliminary bite. Now if you were to eat the crusts first, you fill up on the less desirable bits which are, however, mitigated by the satisfaction of having curbed your hunger. You can then settle back, and finish by eating the choicest morsel of food. Because the most desired parts of a meal are usually the smallest, it is easy to avoid the one risk you run with this philosophy - that of being full up before you reach your favourite part.
You can apply it to eating pizza, Sunday lunch, or any other meal. It even applies to those whose preferences vary - simply reverse it if you are yourself quite partial to crusts. It can even stretch to non-culinary activities. Ca fait tout.

(1) There is a Third Way, but it's not talked about.

Title

Why that title? I'd be quite interested in finding out what people think. First correct answer gets a free gift.

NB. Husbands of the organiser are excluded from entering this competition.