Of seagulls and their daft offspring…

I feel anxious today. I don’t know why, really – maybe it is just amalgamated lack of sleep for five months. Owen has been very whingey today, too and earlier I didn’t know what to do with him at all, he’d had a nice long nap, and a good feed, and still was crying and fidgety. Then I just lay him on his wriggle rug and gave him a monster caterpillar (or is it a centipede, I can’t work it out) and he has been happy as larry for the last twenty minutes, giggling and playing away. Reminder to self: sometimes less is more and sometimes more is more, and you will not know which is true of  a baby unless you try it.

There was a baby seagull in the back garden at five thirty this morning, squawking pathetically through a megaphone right outside the window. His mum sat on the roof, shrieking like a banshee through a PA system hired for Glastonbury, seemingly. This duet woke Owen up, who decided it would be a good idea to join in. I woke to these beautiful harmonies, which continued till seven, although I think Owen did drop off again at some point. The baby seagull was still there when we got back from mother and baby group, so I opened the back gate and let it out. I felt somehow that I ought to be more concerned for its welfare, being a mum myself and all, that it ought to bring out my mothering instinct… but all I could think about was, how great it would be if I had a shotgun, I could shoot any seagull and its daft offspring that ventured into my path.

Now, does that make me a horrible person, or just a normal person? There is a contingent of seagull lovers in my road who would say the former, no doubt…