Seagulls are quite well off, than it seems the common Doverian. Those fat seagulls are like giants. Their webbed feet could nick more than a handful of your vinegar soaked chips, let alone the bleeding cod. My eyes are set for South. I am looking at living in France. Maybe Paris, the only place in France that I have more chance. I am willing to work up from humble beginnings. Just to get out this Goddam Country. I will pack what I can. End my tenancy. Take for what I can realistically take. Pay off final rent and let the council sell or destroy the rest of my belongings. I will then take a one way trip to Dover. Where I will board a ferry to Calais. From there, a coach to Paris. I might be able to get a coach all the way from Victoria to Paris. Sorry Queen Elizabeth II. I leave old Blighty to decay and rot in its own poop. I hope the Queen can forgive my desertion. The Yanks can have Britain. Perhaps in ten years time, good old football, will turn into American football. Mini America. I wonder where those seagulls go in the winter? Do they simply fly south or do they build nests on the white cliffs of Dover?
