Some years ago I had a studio above one of the shops on St James’s st. To get to the door you had to go down a side street, along an alleyway, up a flight of metal steps and across a flat terrace. It made getting paintings in and out of the building a nightmare, but the terrace was a real bonus and, being south facing, wonderful for growing plants on.

Several seagulls also thought it wonderful and every year nested on the roof above the terrace. They did not take kindly to having to share it. As a result, every day there would be a lot of squawking whenever I crossed the terrace. One day I decided to squawk back. This certainly got a reaction so I carried on doing so. After several weeks, I got quite good at mimicking indignant seagulls.

Things escalated. One gull in particular became very bold, bombing me on some days, and on others landing right in front of me where we would try to face each other down, squawking furiously.

What I didn’t know about seagulls at the time, is that when finding themselves in a fight or flight situation, they evacuate their stomach contents. This is, apparently, to allow them to take off quicker, unburdened by any surplus weight. One day I found out about this trait first-hand, when, during a particularly long and spirited volley of avian abuse the gull paused, began to heave and, after a long moment, threw up an entire hot dog, still encased in its ketchup-tinted bun. We both looked at this prize as it lay glistening on the roof. Somehow, it said it all. From then on we kept a wary but respectful distance from each other.