I can hear the chick whistling from the garden behind ours. My own breath is a steady plead that nothing happens to it. Not now, just when it’s on the edge of flight.
They say it takes a village to raise a child. In this case, the child is a lesser black-backed gull, and the village is two rows of urban redbrick semis with rear gardens abutting. For weeks now we’ve lived with the parents erupting as we hang out our washing or empty the bins. Pulling back the curtains has drawn a hard yellow stare to remind me that I shouldn’t be at the window. Outside, our violations have been punished by swoops and dives – sometimes accompanied by a dreaded “shitover”, or being eyeballed as the shrieking gull blustered to tread air, right in front of your face.
