The ferry had just left port, when I decided to go out on the deck for some air.
Seagulls flew over my head and screamed, a sort of sorrowful sound, but they just wanted food.
A man, about 60, was feeding them bread.
I watched him do so, and I wondered why he did it, as the nasty birds shit over his shoes, picked in his fingers and never had enough.
“It is the fun factor,” he said, as if he had read my mind. “Like throwing money to beggars. The way they crawl to pick up the coins.” He groaned. “I love it.”
I didn’t like him on the spot.
He went on feeding the birds untill a woman, I suppose his wife, came on deck as well, took one look at his dirty shoes, and sort of thumped him in the stomach. She took the rest of the bread out of his hands.
“Get inside!” she ordered.