Quote of the Evening

Once a week, the old seagull would set down by the crystal shores of Withernsea. There, as the relentless North Sea crashed on the golden sand, she would reflect on the time that the cruel ocean had taken her mate from her. Her heart would weigh heavy as she remembered how he used to take her to the cliffs to feast on the flocking herring. He was gone now, gone for good, and as a solitary tear formed in her eye-socket, she realised that seagulls don't have tearducts and there was not outlet for the expanding drop of water in her head. Suddenly her head exploded. The sea looked on from afar, with its own sense of disgust. Then it exploded too.

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