For my pains I’ve become a surrogate parent to an orphan seagull. The youthfully-fledged youngster landed in our ancient high-walled kitchen garden yesterday. As I’m temporarily here alone, the burden has fallen entirely on me.

The female chick (you can tell by the shape of the head), which is as big as an adult bird, can’t yet fly, so probably fell off a rooftop and glided down into our patch. She keeps trying to fly up over the wall but can only manage a foot or two off the ground.

My first response was to leave the garden gate open in the hope she would find her way out. Alas, she viewed the opening with dark suspicion and eventually I closed it. It was time for Plan B.

The fact is, she’s never going to survive out there in her present state of infancy. Her mother has clearly abandoned her as a lost cause and doesn’t even come to feed her. A vet would say, leaving her to die might be the most “humane” course of action.

However, it occurred to me that if I could keep her alive for a few days, she might become strong enough to fly out under her own steam and find other gulls to protect her.

Yesterday, she had half my breakfast — a bacon sandwich — which she seemed to enjoy enormously. Hunger is a great leveller for a dainty palate. A tin of tuna fish went down well for lunch. I also discovered that if I leave the garden tap on slightly she will drink directly from the pipe.

She has also found a nest in a large pot with just a few weeds growing in it. I’m afraid the white mess splattered around the garden is not going to win me any friends, but I figure it can’t be helped in the circumstances. She’ll soon be gone and rain will wash it all away. This is England, after all.

She trusts me implicitly now, as I’m the one who delivers her food and obviously means her no harm. I’m hoping she doesn’t imprint on me and imagine she’s a human being. The good news is that every time birds land in the garden she imitates their flying action. I won’t have to follow that chap in “Ring of Bright Water” and run around flapping my arms like a madman.

The poor thing has now injured her foot and is limping around the place like an invalid. The foot doesn’t seem to be broken, just strained in some way. She won’t let me touch it, though, and her razor-sharp beak is not something to treat lightly.

I’ve called her Rita. She doesn’t yet answer to it though.

Update: The sequel to this post, The Bird Has Flown, is here.