When I was eight, our family dog died and, for reasons best known to themselves, my parents decided to see how long it took us children to notice. It was three days. Sometimes an absence is overlooked, in the maelstrom of life, but only for so long.
So it was that I sat on Winterton Beach, where the waves were choppy and a great mass of feeding seabirds gathered. Mediterranean gulls, a cormorant or two, some rowdy herring gulls. It was busy and active. I noted the common terns, diving into the water, and instinctively looked for the little tern, or “little pickies” to go by their Norfolk name.
