Going up St Ebbes, I found the morning population of Marks & Spencers congregated in their fire assembly point, while alarms echoed out of their store. They were all dressed in tidy black, and their voices (a sharp wordless babble faintly audible through my music) had that high, birdish quality that people get when they're not quite sure if the emergency is real, or just a false alarm. One of the shop assistants was holding another; an odd moment of intimacy in the crowd. It was like passing a bird colony; active, social and yet oddly uniform.
This morning, on the phone to the Co-op Bank (having spotted a dodgy internet transaction), Teazel came in and made a beeline for the most inappropriate place in the room and started throwing up a hairball grand style. Much respect is due to the unflappable lady on the end of the phone, who took the yakking cat interruptions in good part, and also to Teazel, for eventually consenting to throw up on a wipe-clan surface, and to phones, for not having cables any more.
It's a gull stamping the river-bed, in order to raise mud and startle out little fish and other tasty morsels. You'll see a coot muscling in to have a go at the mud towards the end; but what you won't see is the Kingfisher, which, just as I lowered the camera, made a flashy flight off his feeding perch (just above the gull) and disappeared into the undergrowth.