Seagulls in the Twilight

Sat in the kitchen with the laptop, waiting for some pork chops to cook, spit and grizzle on the grill behind me, the window open to catch the smoke before the fire alarm notices.
Lying on Em's bed this morning after a sleepless night (bad beer at the bar we were at last night) listening to the seagull cries. Such a cold sound, plaintive and somehow appealing. Gloomy Sunday shores, sheltering from the rain at a fairground-deserted promenade. Orange beaks pulling mussels from the water. Little crabs, unlucky fish.
Think I'll stick to my pork chops.
Today has that unmistakeable air of winter. The muted light all white and sluggish, and a cold exhaustion in each breath. Walking back here from Em's I crossed New Church Road, and looked down the long parallel right to the vanishing point. Both sides of the road were lined by bare leafless trees, and the shade of the tarmac reflected the grey of the sky. Cold pinched faces of passers by, and me, thinking, I could sleep forever.
But I can't. Holiday is over -for two weeks anyway when I am off for Christmas- and that gallows-dread of returning to work tomorrow hangs over me. Feels like the last day of the summer holidays at school.
There is the evening though, and it is early enough not to be dark yet.
I can hear the sound seagulls in the twilight.