Friends in high places

Jonathan  (all photos: Gigi, album)

 

"The gull sees farthest who flies highest."

(Richard Bach)  

Sometimes, it can seem that the very people we care about or lean on leave us, whether voluntarily or reluctantly. Affinities, vows, rings, paper and words; the things that are seen to bind can fall away quite suddenly. And sometimes, animals seem to appear through the cracks in our daily lives, nudging their way into our conscience and our consciousness. Even long domesticated animals remain wild at heart. We may cage them, harness them, clip and tag them,  ply them with treats and catnip, but they still choose whether or not to love us. It's true that some animals see their humans as a consistent supply of ready meals, yet even so they may never develop a brand loyalty to us. And the unsolicited and unbound companionship of a truly wild and free creature is always a precious thing. 
Jonathan Seagull didn't so much nudge as muscle his way into my life, bill first, through the catflap I inherited from the previous home-owner. Ginger from next door has only just mastered it, after more than two years of cajoling, nagging and motivational pep talking from me. It has a Perspex flap, so I can see which neighbourhood scally-cat or fearless fox has come calling.
Very shortly after I moved into the little house, I heard an insistent and quite irritated tap-tapping at the catdoor one squally night. It spooked me. Peering from the darkness of my kitchen on my hands and knees, I saw a wild-eyed gull staring back at me. I looked. He looked. Suddenly he flapped and bashed the catflap again. In true Hitchcockian-blonde-I've-seen-"The Birds"-style, I screamed. He screamed back. After a while, he hopped onto my garden bench, setting the security light off. From the back window, I could see what a big bird he was. Herring gull; full grown, sharp eyes, impressive bill. And a gammy left foot which he couldn't quite put down. Just as he was about to give up and started to spread his wings, I opened the back door.
"Hello Mr Seagull. How are you?" Even I realised how pathetic this sounded. The bird lowered his wings, cocked his head and surveyed the human he'd chosen to call on, resplendent in mini leopard print bathrobe and flipflops. I'd never seen a gull look disparaging before; I've now become familiar with that look.  "My name's Gisele, Mr Seagull." Seldom in my life have I felt so foolish, which is saying something.
"Mr Seagull" would quickly became "Jonathan", after the title character in one of my favourite books. Richard Bach's "Jonathan Livingston Seagull" is a soaring analogy about spirit; the story of a seagull's search for perfection through flight. After feeding him oven chips that first night, I assumed he would never return to my staunchly vegetarian home, but I did hope. My Dad used to rescue and tend to injured birds back in south London; most of them returned to the skies. One distinctive and clearly grateful pigeon called "Roucal" returned to my Dad's nesting box and bird-table for many years. But I had no real experience of seagulls.
I couldn't get near to his sore foot of course, but as he snapped at the chips I gathered that it was tender underneath. I realise now that he wouldn't have been able to swoop for food or perch properly to eat it. It was raining persistently when Jonathan first arrived and there were muddy puddles forming in the cracked cement in my backyard.. As I scattered his second serving of chips, I thought I might try a few drops  of TCP in the puddles he was hopping through. I had no idea if this might be beneficial in any way, but eventually I realised he was staying relatively still in one doctored puddle.
He stayed for about an hour, until there were no more fresh chips and he'd tired of my wittering. He flapped up and out into the darkness, leaving me and my bathrobe drenched, starving and startled by the whole episode. The next morning I ventured out to clear up any soggy leftovers and possibly a copious amount of droppings. A splutter of feathers rushed down from my back roof. I assume he'd slept there overnight.. Still largely balancing on one leg, he ate my breakfast crumpets with unconcealed disdain. He flapped off skyward after another hour and I headed off to the laptop to Google the life and culinary loves of the herring gull.
Jonathan's foot healed over the next couple of months. We discovered that he liked raw broccoli but not asparagus, was partial to cat biscuits and over-ripe tomatoes and would tolerate my vegetable fingers in the absence of fish.  He loved salmon flavoured cat treats but spat the cheesy ones out at me with ferocious accuracy. His love of all things spud rivals my own; maybe Jonathan had an Antrim mother too. As he healed he was able to sit on my garden bench and table and perch on the old shed. As his landings and take-offs became more adventurous, he terrorised the other garden birds and traumatised next door's cat. He monopolised my large basin birdbath, sometimes completely up-ending it during crash and splash landings.
He's even ventured into the kitchen when I've left the backdoor open without properly acknowledging his presence. He's filled my front and back guttering with moss and more unmentionable things as he's gradually commandeered the whole of my roof. His bad-boy landings in a confined space have destroyed pots, plants and lanterns. He quickly learned how to manipulate the security light and will still tap at the catflap from time to time, his calling-card. 

 

  

Out front, Jonathan will sit on random parked cars outside my window and flap about while I'm on the 'phone. Unattended for too long, he will crap all over the cars, from bonnet to boot. He craps on my garden bench and table, on my neighbours' washing and even on the cat if possible; and once on me, which I feel was memorable for both of us in differing ways. I know this is said to be lucky, but it feels terribly unfortunate at the time.

More than two years since he first knocked at my catdoor, his visits have become far less frequent but I now know not to worry if he doesn't appear for a month or more. People nod sympathetically when I say I know he'll always come back. Herring gulls have been known to have long memories and can live for twenty to thirty years. Jonathan seems quite determined to me and I probably seem quite devoted to him. I think he was the gull equivalent of a sulky mid-teen when he first arrived. Although I've learned that they're not pack creatures, he's sometimes landed with a couple of smaller but quite hooligan mates in tow, as though I've opened a Wild Bean Café in the garden. Ginger the cat has been jittery for days afterwards.

I love the ubiquitous presence of seagulls in this city. It's possible to feed them by hand along the seafront and they're a natural alarm clock. Some gulls are screechers, some are squalers, others laugh. Jonathan Seagull is a particularly loud laugher. "Ahahaha!" announces his arrival or passage overhead, pitched somewhere between machine gun rattle and a young Sid James. A couple of months ago, he sat on my roof for over an hour, periodically cackling at a friend and I as we attempted some DIY in my garden.

This summer, he felt comfortable enough to bring his lady-seagull to my roof, copulating quite noisily and somewhat precariously on top of my chimney pots. Of course, he laughed all the way through sex as well. I tried to carry on painting my plant pots as best I could, embarrassed but incredulous at his stamina and her forbearance. Herring gulls tend to mate for life, unless one of them falls off a chimney pot.in the throes of passion.

I appreciate that not all Brightonans are as fond of our increasing seagull population. I've often heard the expression "rats with wings"; it's true that the omnivorous gulls are natural scavengers. Brighton is a city of seaside kiosks and pavement cafes, spawning kerbside binbag collections and overflowing communal bins. As the gulls become more urbanised, they see rooftops as handy inland cliffs. This summer, hundreds of gull chicks had to be rescued by local conservationists after sliding of roofs (the chicks; hopefully not the conservationists). Over the past couple of years, the pond in Queen's Park has become a seagull nursery, with some kindly residents keeping a wary eye on dozens of chicks while the adult birds are off being hunter-gatherers.

I've never really liked the word "pet" as a term of possession. I'm as much Jonathan's human as he is my gull. I'm probably not his only human, but his presence in my garden and in my life is pretty special. On the absolute downside, Tippi Toadlet seems to have disappeared and I often fear for the smart slow-worm (called Norris, of course) who frequents the far corner of the garden by the fig tree. But the friendship of Jonathan Seagull has been an unexpected blessing.

During the bright, hot days of August, Jonathan sat on the lowest part of my roof for an hour or so, cackling and posing for photos, which I've shared here. This weekend, grey and dank, he turned up again; watching me watching the cat watching him. In the midst of the unpleasantness from some featherless neighbours, he's been an untethered yet calming presence. However, his decision to crap on my neighbours' washing line yet again can't really have eased the situation.

He can and will always fly away. With the graces of flight and speed, he travels to places I will never see. Yet somewhere on the map of a seagull's life, I'm one of the points called home. I've often thought it fortunate for Jonathan that God directed a beleaguered seagull to an animal loving potato eater. I suspect Jonathan knows that I'm the fortunate one.



 

 "Jonathan Seagull discovered that boredom and fear and anger are the reasons that a gull's life is so short, and with those gone from his thought, he lived a long fine life indeed."  

(From "Jonathan Livingston Seagull", Richard Bach)

  

 

"Heaven is not a place, and it is not a time. Heaven is being perfect. -And that isn't flying a thousand miles an hour, or a million, or flying at the speed of light. Because any number is a limit, and perfection doesn't have limits. Perfect speed, my son, is being there."
(From "Jonathan Livingston Seagull", Richard Bach)

 

"Bird On A Wire"  The Neville Brothers (version)

 

 

"God loved the birds and created trees. Mam loved the birds and invented cages." 

(Jacques Deval)

 

 

The female of the species

"When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth."

(From "Warning", Jenny Joseph)

Many thanks to my dear friend Tom for sending the following funny, which I've had to adapt ever so slightly... Rudyard Kipling wrote beautifully about "The Female of the Species being deadlier than the male", but I want to grow into a lively and loved old lady: Jenny Joseph's poem could have been written specifically about the fabulous older girls in this corner of the world.

All women should live so long as to be this kind of lady!
Toward the end of Sunday mass, the priest asked: "How many of you have forgiven your enemies?"
Eighty percent of the congregation raised their hands.
The priest repeated his question. Everyone responded this time, except one small, elderly lady.
"Mrs Neely? Are you not willing to forgive your enemies?"
"I don't have any," she replied, smiling sweetly.
"Mrs Neely, that is very unusual! How old are you?"
"Ninety eight," she replied. The congregation stood up and applauded her.
"Ah, Mrs Neely, would you please come down front and tell us all how a person can live to be ninety eight years and not have an enemy in the world?"
The little sweetheart of a lady tottered down the aisle, faced the congregation, and said:

"I outlived the b******s."

In the oldest burial ground attached to Brighton's oldest surviving church, the original parish church of St Nicholas, there is a listed tombstone dedicated to one Phoebe Hessel. Phoebe had become something of a Brighton celebrity by the time she died in 1821, at the age of 108. She was actually born in Stepney, in East London, where her life is commemorated with plaques and in at least two street names.
Sources have claimed that her father was a soldier who took the infant Phoebe with him on missions. Certainly Phoebe developed a fascination with the army at an early age: her sex prevented her from becoming a soldier herself. As she became a young woman, she disguised herself as a man, to enlist and serve alongside her soldier lover, Samuel Golding. As part of the British Army 5th Foot Regiment, she served in the West Indies and Gibraltar. Her sex remained undetected for an unbelievable seventeen years, until both she and her man were wounded at the Battle of Fontenoy in 1745. Phoebe was by now 32 years of age. Rumbled, the couple were discharged and able to marry.
Samuel and Phoebe settled in Plymouth and had nine children; eight died in infancy. The surviving son would later die at sea. After two decades of marriage, Samuel died. Phoebe refused to submit to the life of an ageing widow. She moved to Brighton and married local fisherman Thomas Hessel. She was 80 when Thomas also passed away. Phoebe was granted three guineas from the parish funds and bought herself a donkey and cart, as you do when you become an octogenarian. To support herself, she took to selling fish and seafood around Brighton. Eventually, she would become well known and loved as a vendor of gingerbread, apples and citrus fruits on a street corner close to the Pavilion. She was forced into the workhouse but again refused to submit to age or circumstance; she discharged herself when she was 93.
The Prince Regent himself was so impressed by her character and longevity that he sustained her remaining years by granting her a pension of half a guinea a week. She would attend his coronation parade in Brighton six months before she finally died of natural causes. Her Grade II listed tombstone has been maintained by the Northumberland Fusiliers, the modern successors to the army regiment that would not officially have enlisted her. In true Brightonian style, a city bus has been named after Phoebe Hessel; possibly, this quirky city's oldest known cross-dresser.

Not quite Phoebe's donkey cart.

 Phoebe Hessel, possibly wearing purple.

"A beautiful woman may be an accident of nature, but a beautiful old woman is a work of art." 

(Louis Nizer)

"Every age can be enchanting provided you can live within it." 

(Brigitte Bardot) 

"Oh Mary Don't You Weep No More" Bruce Springsteen

The water is wide and a bit brass monkeys (really rather cold)

"Do you want to go to the seaside?

I'm not trying to say that everybody wants to go.

I fell in love at the seaside;

I handled my charm with time and slight of hand"

(From "Seaside" by The Kooks)

Photo: Gigi, album

Several years ago, when I was still a born and bred Londoner, The Independent published a short article about Brighton, coining it the latest destination for Londoners in "the demographics of disillusionment". Brighton has often been dismissed as "London-on-sea": to be fair, many of the folk I've encountered here in the past couple of years have escaped from The Smoke, only to find this gritty little corner of East Sussex has some of the most polluted air in the UK.
The article rattled on about Brighton's tarnished and tired reputation and the underbelly of wide-boy entrepreneurs and gold chain wearing gangsters. Yes, Brighton can be seedy, but I've found it's an almost cosy kind of seediness, a bit like our beautiful heron gulls strewing pizza and party poppers along the pavements. The article berated Brighton's people as the real problem, citing middle-aged punks, hippies and ravers and in particular the "lentil-munchers" who believe they're special. I appreciate that many people beyond East Sussex certainly feel that a lot of Brighton folk are somehow trying to evade or cheat their way out of maturity. I prefer to view our little quirks and eccentricities as a kind of die-hard innocence. Even our lopsided and crammed little terraced streets (now marketed as charming workmen's cottages but originally Victorian slums) are painted in clashing pastel shades, in defiance of whatever is thrown at the area, meteorologically, socially or economically.
I often say that Brighton is a rusty little place to live: there's something precious glinting beneath every layer of barnacles and grime. I've seen real poverty among people since I moved here, sometimes spiritual as well as physical; yet I've also witnessed both the gentleness and the tenacity of the human spirit. It is gritty here, but let's call it true grit. The ancient settlement Brighthelmstone dates from before the Doomsday Book. The Brighton of the Regency Set and recent day-tripping has literally raised itself up from the ashes. Brighthelmstone was sacked and burnt to the ground by French raiders in 1514, leaving only part of St Nicholas' Church (the area's Mother Church) and the skeletal street pattern of The Lanes. By the 1740s, Brighton had reinvented itself as a spa and resort. I've no doubt Brighton will emerge from the current recession and any era of disillusionment with that spirit and sense of irony intact.
The Independent concluded that Brighton was "the capital for people who can't handle London", with nearby Lewes the choice for those who can't handle Brighton. It conceded that Brighton could be extremely useful: "as a dump for London's moaners". Again, I agree that many of us who are self-exiled Londoners have a bag of chips on our shoulders about constant comparisons between the two cities. "It's actually very different from London " we say earnestly,  " for one thing, we have the sea..." And the one thing about Brighton that will never be urbanised or easily dismissed is that it is unequivocally, unapologetically and un-subtly Seaside, with everything that implies. It has the green gentility of the Downs to ease back against, the Little London shot of hustle and bustle to keep it on it's patched up toes, but it is essentially a fishing village that made good and remains on the lookout and on the make to do so again. Even our beautifully gaudy and slightly incongruous royal palace, The Pavilion was once just a re-hashed farmhouse with a sea view.

 

 2013 New Year's Day swim at Brighton Pier and Saltdean, East Sussex

Traditionally, every Christmas Day since 1860 and more recently each New Year's Day, hardy Brightonians take to the sea for an obviously very chilly and apparently rejuvenating dip. This year, they were disappointed after the council closed the beach because of bad weather. With the usual high tide and burgeoning winds being taunted by the forecast of an unusually heavy sea swell it was considered too dangerous, even for experienced swimmers. The early morning temperature also fell below five degrees. Yet yesterday morning, the New Year dippers were back in force, at the pier beach and further along the stony Brighton coast. 
It was a quiet day in the city, although the pier was still lit up and winking from Christmas; like a favourite auntie after a few festive sherries, all dressed up in the hope the family are taking her out. With many restaurants closing at 6 pm, there seemed to be quite a few people wandering around hopefully, looking for somewhere to be and something to do. I ambled home last night from a lovely day out and about, with the reassuring feeling that it could only be a matter of time before they find them.

The Christmas Day swim at Brighton Pier, 2009.

"Beyond the Sea" was a favourite song for both my parents; almost instinctively it's become one of mine.

"Beyond the Sea"  Bobby Darin

"It's a good world if you don't weaken."
(From "Brighton Rock", Graham Greene)

Simples...

"Three things will last forever--faith, hope, and love--and the greatest of these is love."

(1 Corinthians 13:13)

I'm indebted to Chantal for reminding me of the simple energy of Gandhi's Prayer for Peace. Chantal wouldn't mind me saying that she may not be a fan of organised religion but she is an ardent supporter of the power of Spirit, of souls and of angels at work amongst us. Whilst I'm happy to call myself Catholic, I feel fortunate that life has introduced me to good people who are Anglican, C of E, Buddhist, Jewish, Muslim... One of my Brightonian friends, actually a lapsed Roman Catholic, describes himself as a "paranormal physicist wizard"; as comedian Dara O'Briain would say, he might just be seen as a particularly bad Catholic! Echoing another good ol' Oirish comedian, Dave Allen used to say he was "...an atheist, thank God": I have friends who define themselves as "agnostic", but they're loving, hopeful agnostics. Therefore, I cheerfully believe they actually have faith that the proof they feel they need exists. I believe that where there is Love, there will be Hope; where there is Hope there must be Faith.

Remember the old saying that as long as you get to the destination it doesn't matter who's driving the bus? I'm always heartened to see people return or commit to the Catholic Church, but I would also rather live in a city where I can see a spectrum of faiths at work daily, rather than stark disbelief or spiritual atrophy. For me it's simple: if you have faith in the universe, you have faith in God, if you have faith in your fellow man or yourself, you have faith in God. If you have faith in God, by whatever name, we're on Common Ground; fertile, supportive and open to all.

Mahatma Gandhi stated that he believed in the truths of all the great world religions: "All the religions of the world, while they may differ in other respects, unitedly proclaim that nothing lives in this world but Truth". As a committed opponent to the convenience of "communalism", basing political standpoints or initiatives on religious tenets, he was able to reach out to diverse religious groups and gain the audience of the politicians. The name bestowed on him by his supporters, Mahatma, literally means "Great Soul". Gandhi often said he disliked the name: his simplicity was his strength and resolve. Sometimes, labels are merely like washing instructions or a list of ingredients or components: they speak nothing of struggle, joy or worth. Simplicity of purpose and as acceptance can be much maligned in today's world; instead of  bemoaning insufficient complexity as though it were embroidery, bask in the clarity and purity. We're all the same in that we're all different: beyond this, further division is obsolete. If I wander into your church to light a candle and you don't  recognise me, don't dwell on where I might be from or even where I'm going. Let's just share the warmth of the flame.

"Simple Soul"  Eddi Reader

"Out of clutter, find simplicity. From discord, find harmony: in the middle of difficulty lies opportunity".

(Albert Einstein)

 

"It's all clever stuff I'm giving you..."

It seems all Brightonians are born with a Max Miller-ish take on humour: look for it and you'll find it everywhere; don't look for it and it'll probably trip you up. Since I moved here, I've learnt that Max kept two notebooks for jokes: a white one for clean ones and a blue one for "adult" ones. Coming back on a train from London last night, I encountered a "junior" Maxie.
I am already missing my chocolate, I admit. I'm being very careful and am turning away the tiniest choc-chip in a cookie. So I found myself fascinated by a small girl on the train who had peeled a large, family sized bar of caramel chocolate and was just munching down it, as though it was a banana. No breaking it into the separate sections, and certainly no sharing it with her slightly older brother. She was about six and she eyeballed me intently as she sat munching. I used to peel back large bars of chocolate and bite into them in exactly the same way when I was younger. Alright, until Ash Wednesday last week to be precise. She suddenly thrust the half demolished bar at me and said "You!" Her Mum laughed and said Clara NEVER shares her chocolate and must want me to have it. I explained that I couldn't, eventually telling the mum that it was because it was Lent. I'd no idea the little boy was listening, but he suddenly piped up "It's not lent - she won't want your bit back after you've had it!"  Just to emphasise his cleverness, he finished off with "Boom boom!"
No, I didn't eat any. Yes, lovely  Clara did manage to smudge some on my face anyway.