It’s 5:49 on a Friday arvo, it’s just under twenty degrees and the breeze is knocked off for the weekend. Up high it’s the sort of bullshit blue you see in postcards, a sky that makes wankers nostalgic and dickheads thirsty. The tallest thing on South Bridge Street is a gull, standing one webbed foot up on one of four orange chimneys, stacked together atop the old grey building across the street from my flat. He’s been standing there for ages, aimlessly hassling his feathers with his beak the way you smoke waiting for a train. I like him.
Twenty minutes later and he’s still there. I made and drained a cup of tea, and old mate is trusty as ever. That bird, flicking his feathers and blinking for a hobby, could be anywhere. There’s a beach, there’s mossy green bush, there’s some really decent places for a beer, and here he is standing alone on a chimney. I mean I’m sure the view is pretty spectacular; this town rolls and rambles with a sweet smile and hacking cough that must look like something close to beauty when you see it all together, but birds get that like us middle class brats get soft beds. Maybe he’s waiting for someone. Maybe he’s waiting for his friends to turn up and bury the working week that took so long to die. Or maybe there’s a lovely lady gull that sometimes haunts those chimneys on a Friday night, and he’s decided to just be in the neighbourhood. Or maybe he’s hiding from them, from her, from the weekend. Or maybe he’s just a bird with good view. Either way I should have a shower, it’s Friday night, and I’m a thirsty dickhead.