On my way out, I was somewhat alarmed to see the juvenile resident on my roof flying back solo from an outing and apparently coming straight for me. It was clearly not intending to attack, was just very off course. Instead of diving for cover like a normal human being, I stood rooted to the spot, staring in horrified fascination as it came in to land.
I was on a plane a few years ago, on a perfectly calm and sunny day, returning from a relaxing holiday with my parents after a period of illness. The plane came in at such a peculiar angle that I was convinced that the wing tip was going to hit the runway. As it landed, the plane bounced laterally, from one wheel to another and then back again, eventually settling on both before the nose cone came down and we had all wheels on the runway. Everyone on the plane looked sick and pale, and no-one was looking particularly relaxed. The captain was good enough to inform us, with a vague air of apology, that a trainee had landed the plane.
This was a bit like that. The seagull was making a very similar and equally unsound manoeuvre that obviously had a lot to do with the house being on a very steep hill and very little to do with a genetically inherited sense of orientation. It was making the loud peeping noise that juveniles do, and was coming in feet forward, like a duck landing on a lake, but at an angle that was at alarming variance to the angle of the roof. Both the trajectory and the speed were quite wrong and the result was that it just managed to hit the roof, but with an amazing crash. There were a few moments of silence and then a lot of really angry squawking, which I imagine was one of the parents having a few words on the subject of low-flying infants. On my return from Machynlleth it was flying in and out again, apparently none the worse for wear. But like the pilot on that damned plane - it has a lot to learn!
Comments