A man leaned out of an open window, hoping to be revived by the bracing wind as he contemplated life.
A seagull clung tight to the ridge of a roof by a wrought iron weather vane.
It squawked: “arrk!”.
Answering squawks came from chimney pots and roofs nearby: “arrrk!”, “ark!”, “arrraak!”, “arrk!”
“Buggering hell it’s cold!” they seemed to be saying.
And indeed they were.
But they were also planning a terrible, terrible thing.
With one unison cry “ARRRRK!” they acted.
They flew, they swooped towards the man at that open window. They flew at him, shattering his thoughts on the general bigness of living.
The gulls pecked at him, they clawed at him, they drew blood from the soft flesh of his cheeks. They dug their sharp claws into his scalp and pulled at his beard with their strong beaks.
He was driven inside with a scream. But they followed. More seagulls than he had known were out there.
The gulls poured into his flat and he fled in a maelstrom of wing flaps and snapping pulling beaks, and swiping black claws.
He battled through the front door and slammed it behind him before pelting down the stairs and hiding, whimpering, sobbing, shaking, bleeding, dabbing at wounds with a seriously insufficient tissue.
In the flat, the sea gulls enjoyed the warmth and shelter, found the kitchen, ransacked and feasted.