Adam is gutsy, he is brash. He can go like the clappers. He never blows hot and cold, just cold. A cool, cool shot of air that pushes out in a bank from his wide mouth. Seagulls could ride that airstream, dipping a wing here, tilting a head there, before plummeting to the sea and drawing out – they hope – a glittering, twisting, silver morsel. Adam belches this seagull air, looking from left to right and pausing for a moment at each side. In these pauses he seems to lose some of his power, become laconic, perhaps think a little. Most of the time he holds forth without thought, but in these in between times, when no-one is looking, I fancy he stops to think.
Emily never thinks, she just keep on whirring relentlessly. She’s more petite, resting on a tabletop rather than standing apart – as Adam does – on her own island. She’s younger, smarter, keener, more stealthy. Her breath doesn’t hit you solidly in the face – it graces your hair. You feel it at your edges. She never misses a beat. At least I think she doesn’t. There was a moment last night when I thought she went completely silent, as if waiting for us to drift off to sleep and then taking a moment’s rest. But it must have been my sleep-deaf ears.