The sun is shining in Wellington, and the city's doing its best approximation of summer, so I went down to take a swim in the harbor. Water's still chilly and everyone thinks I'm insane for doing so. But it was good.
After getting out, I lay down to eat an orange and read some Pynchon (having rediscovered my momentum with Gravity's Rainbow). Because I had stayed out too late dancing on Saturday to wake up in time for the Sunday market, I've had to settle for distinctly inferior supermarket oranges this week. They're mealier and have nightmarishly thick rinds. So as I was eating the orange, I kept having to peel off bits of rind that I had failed to separate in my initial peeling.
A flock of seagulls accumulated downwind of me. Although seagulls don't actually eat orange rind, they curiously pecked at each scrap I tossed away before losing interest. The number of gulls steadily rose in spite of the complete lack of edible rewards. They started squabbling over premium positions and chasing each other around. Eventually, they went airborne, and I had a cloud of three or four gulls flapping against the stiff northerly in a holding pattern above my head. Eying up my orange with their beady prehistoric eyes.
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