Here we go again. We've had ducklings, a duck, pigeons, a seagull. Now we've got another juvenile seagull on top of the building outside our office fire escape window.
Like all those others, it can't fly away. Poor fucker.
Women are clucking around it, talking to it like it's a human baby, feeding it fishy cat food, keeping its bowl (yes, its bowl) topped up with fresh drinking and bathing water.
The RSPB say there's a bloke in Yorkshire who's a volunteer who may be able to arrange for another local volunteer to take it to the coast and release it into the wild. That's what happened with the other seagull - you'll see it at Hastings next time you're there. The Society say that if it is uneconomical for someone to come (credit crunch alert!) it shouldn't be fed out of a dish but food should be spread all over the roof, dotted around in small portions so the bird gets used to the scavenging lifestyle. Its mother may encourage it to fly and, who knows, it may take off.
The fat fucker's had six tins of cat food in two days!
The women have not called the RSPCA as "they put birds down".
What to do? What to do?
A bloke from the office next door turns up with an RSPCA warden. She picks up the screeching bird.
"I see you're feeding her," she says. "Do you want me to leave her here?"
"Where would you take him?"
"To a wildlife sanctuary," says the warden. "Do you want me to take her?"
"What do you think, Geoff?"
"Yes, please. Take it."
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