Monday, July 14, 2003
It was the screaming I heard first. An ear-splitting squeal of fright. Then the clip-clip-clopping of retreating high-heels on city pavement. As I got closer, I saw panicking city traders scurry across the road, dodging oncoming traffic, as they frantically searched for cover. Others cowered in doorways, trying to hide, faces turned away, hands instinctively covering their eyes.
One man, more foolhardy than most, attempted a lone stand against the attacker. Tried to beat him off with his briefcase. That just made things worse. His assailant screeched angrily and lashed back, diving in for the kill. The man turned and ran. And me? What did I do? Hell, I legged it too.
And so, I venture, would you, if you were being repeatedly dive-bombed on Chancery Lane by four pounds of extremely narked and savage seagull at eight o'clock on a Monday morning. Tippi Hedren I most certainly am not.