Death by brothel

Someone kicked a seagull to death outside the Brothel last night.

Ive decided to forever refer to our house as The Brothel, in a cynical and completely ineffective publisher-wooing move which will doubtless please my little Methodist mother no end.

It is not entirely a lie.
I do live in a brothel.
Kind of.
As I mentioned at some point earlier, we discovered – while having a drink with our new neighbours – that somewhere in the scheme of local history, our house was a knocking shop. As they put it.

Well, I say somewhere in the scheme of local history; I mean last year. When they moved in opposite, which was not an indescribably long time ago (last year) our house was a little tiny two-up-two-down-of-ill-repute. Wahey!

This of course makes no difference whatsoever. Apart from, perhaps, to make me wonder whether we should swap that attractive red bulb in the porch for a plain one, and whether Ive made a mistake in displaying my favourite vintage MASSAGE SAUNA! HOT TOTTY! FIVE DOLLAR! poster quite so prominently in the front window. Still. It at least gives a little frisson to what is, otherwise, merely a rather polite (if tiny) house. Its a nice house, the Brothel.

Im not that happy about things being kicked to death outside it, though: Even if they are seagulls.

Yes, I know, thats bad. You must excuse my sounding a little unsympathetic. I am, I really, really am, and it was a horrific, upsetting experience, its just – well, Ive been there five weeks, and have developed a rather passionate dislike of seagulls.
To put it mildly.

In fact the thing that Ive been gradually writing in internetful moments to put up on this site next happens to be about seagulls and how thoroughly cunty they are, and now, as if to make me feel bad about that, one goes and gets itself kicked to death in front of the Brothel. So now I dont have anything to put up, because I feel so bad about it all. So Ill just tell you what happened last night, instead.

In a coincidence that seems funnier now than it did at eleven oclock last night, wed just been having a conversation, my beloved and I, about how yes, this area was rougher than the one we used to live in, but even though *some* drug dealers are worse than *No* drug dealers, we still liked it very much here, and are very happy, and anyway, nothing that bad had happened yet, had it? And then I went to bed.

I edged around the bed to turn on my light, and heard voices outside the window, in the passageway below.

Thatll teach you to shit on me, said a mans voice. Peaking through the blind, I saw his fast-swinging foot scoop something off the ground and watched as it flew through the air, a floppy brown mass which made a high pitched whimpering sound as it arced across, then hit the gutter. It lay still.

The man – who looked like if he hadnt got several ASBOs resting on his heavily-polyestered shoulders already, he should do – walked away, laughing. I could hear girls, too, and another young alpha-twat, all laughing. they all walked away. Laughing.

I ran downstairs, whispering urgently to my beloved that someone had kicked a small dog to death outside our house. Then I went to be sick.

It was a seagull, he said. Not a dog. Not the little aged terrier called Flossie who drinks in the pub next door – thats what Id been scared of most. It was the young brown seagull wed been watching walk up and down the roof opposite. It was dead now, my beloved said. It was most certainly dead.

Even though, lying there, I thought I could hear the high-pitched whining sound Id heard before every few minutes, never getting fainter. I turned on the fan for white noise, and the radio for background. And all the way through the night kept waking up and thinking of the shape and the curve of the body of the bird as it flew in an arc from fuckers foot to gutter.

I tried to rationalise. The seagulls were pests, I told myself. Mice were pests. Id ordered a hit on a mouse in the past, hadnt I? I would do again, wouldnt I?

Well, yes, but not while laughing. Not gleefully. Not like that. It wasnt like he chased it, even, I thought. It was just lying there. A vulnerable, non-moving target.

Then I realised what must have happened. It was a young seagull. Wed watched him, earlier in the day, trying to fly and bottling out. He must have fallen from the roof – it was late at night, after all, and wet – and broken his wing.

The bastard who kicked him would never have thought of it; but he probably put it out of its misery, ended its pain far quicker than would otherwise have been the case. In a way, I think, he did the nicest thing.

Though I wouldnt tell him so, for fear of encouraging him to go around kicking other small animals. Because, you know, he probably would.

So there you go.

On the one hand: very horrible and very sad, making me despair for humanity and feel keenly the passing of an innocent creature. Very horrible. Very sad.

On the other: one less of something Im not fond of in the slightest. Yes, in sad, and horrible way, but still one less of something that would otherwise be spreading rubbish and disease. And poo. And going RAWWWWWRRIIIIK. Oh, youll see in that post I shall write.

And to sum up: I love my new little (rented) house, but it DID used to be a brothel, we THINK there are drug dealers living on the corner and OCCASIONALLY people kick small defenseless creatures to death outside it.

But other than that its LOVELY.

< Sits back and waits for consecutive calming phonecalls from concerned family members >