Effing Gulls

For a while my aerobic exercise du choix was on the back burner. I blame the bird life around here that I’m still fatter than I’d planned. For during the summer months I am inexplicably under attack when I go out for a run. The effing gulls around here swoop down low and brush my head with their sharp little feet. Sometime they use their poo as an additional weapon. My mum used to say it was lucky to be shat upon from on high. I disagree.

The gulls in my hometown don’t do it to everyone. I’ve checked on a local Facebook page. It’s seems that it might be just me that they take a personal dislike to. So year on year I’ve stopped my jog around the block each June time when the babies are hatching. It seems so lightweight but I’m terrified. This time I was determined not to be bullied by the buggers. I resisted suggestions to run carrying a baseball bat or an open umbrella. But I did change my route and took to wearing a cap, just in case the birds were taking umbrage to my grey mop top.

It was all in vain. I persisted through all too regular ambushes during my warm up in the park where I scampered between the trees for cover. It must have looked pretty comedic to any onlooker. The mission to fitness was finally aborted during a particularly hazardous run about six weeks ago. There were fledgings everywhere, nearly the same size as the adults. Surely they didn’t need protecting at all? The grown ups begged to differ. I was attacked three times.

I reckon that the chicks have now flown the nest and the effing gulls don’t give a toss about them anymore. So today I’m chancing it. Just after this posts gets published I’ll resume my little trots around the block. Let see if I’m safe again!

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