Ah, the great British bank holiday. A cloudless blue sky with the sun beating down relentlessly (well, sometimes), the air a rich mixture of fried onions, suntan lotion, sickly-sweet doughnuts and body odour. The latest number one record blasts out from the crackly PA system, punctuated by the screams of thrill seekers on the nausea-inducing rides and the regular sound of a text or social media update alert, all mixed in with the territorial shrieks of the native seagulls. I like seagulls. Love them or hate them, the seaside would not be the same without their prehistoric-sounding cries. Walking along the seafront and up and down the pier, they are fascinating to watch as they drift on the air currents in a circling pattern, looking for a dropped ice cream, discarded doughnut or negligently unprotected sandwich or piece of fried fish. In many ways they are the pickpockets of the promenade – aerial artful dodgers, if you like –  tolerating the masses who invade their space on a daily basis, but always with an eye on an opportunity to levy their daytrippers’ tax on the unsuspecting and distracted…