BY DOMINIC WIGHTMAN I found him on the third of December, on the jagged slate below the harbour wall. W12 – so-called for the zinc marked ring some do-gooding knave in sandals had clamped to his leg, turning a sovereign into a specimen. The tide had receded, leaving him arranged there with terrible finality: a crumpled monograph of salt and hunger, one wing extended in … Continue reading Conversation with a Seagull