A Painful Squawk

Faded shutters and cracked masonry line the street, the endless vacancy signs swing in the breeze coming off the ocean and flecks of once white paint cling to the always dismal guesthouses. As I stand in the warmth of my home I stare out at the bleak street made all the bleaker by winter. I wonder who in history decided white was the colour for seaside resorts, the sharp colour bleached by the sun then dirtied in the winter on repeat until the grey sets in. If you look closely you can see the past, all were once Victorian townhouses, summer retreats reserved for the middle classes and above now either turned into cheap guest houses or tiny flats for the working classes. How times have changed.

Further down the street on the corner sits a Subaru suffocating with racing decals though it’s clearly not a race car and lowering the tone of the street even further. Silver Mercedes and black BMWs try to gentrify the place but being parked outside a laundrette and an offie doesn’t have the same effect but they clog up the narrow street nonetheless. Though I find it hard to imagine anyone who can afford a car like that living here but perhaps the ostentatious car is the reason they can’t afford to live anywhere else.

A painful squawk claims my attention, a brute of a seagull struts bobbing its head to natures beat. He checks the coast is clear before inspecting a discarded kebab box before deciding its contents aren’t good enough. He shakes his gamy leg before taking flight landing on a ledge outside someone’s window, the curtains are open and he stares in like the peeping Tom of seagulls.