A DULL, dreary winter's day. Not a breath of wind ruffles the surface of the sluggish Thames, shining like black treacle. An icy chill seeps into every corner and crevice. Contrasting sharply with the dark water, gulls loaf, hunched up, their plump white forms reminiscent of a plateful of sugary meringues.

Flocks of tufted ducks and coots dive, bobbing up with open beaks clamped to water snails which are swallowed after several painful looking gulps. No rising fish dimple the water. Most surface- feeding species, like dace and bleak, hug the river bed in listless shoals.

Cormorants, with a gaunt, angular, almost prehistoric look about them, perch stiffly on bankside trees, occasionally swooping down to swim in their characteristic waterlogged fashion, heads erect, backs scarcely visible. A pair of great crested grebes cruise by, taking turns to dive and reappear metres away, fishless. The whole scene seems to convey a state of suspended animation, a feeling of resignation to the rigours of winter as nature rests before the first warmth of spring triggers a new beginning.

Suddenly the silence is shattered by the clamour of a squadron of Canada geese, the football hooligans of the bird world. They've spotted someone throwing bread and arrive at the same time as the gulls which quickly spring into raucous life, to squabble over the crusts. The tufted ducks move away from the melee while the gulls gorge. Two swans sail in, creating battleship-style bow waves, wings raised in aggressive posture but they are ignored by the throng. Satisfying hunger is more important on such a cold day.

Their offering exhausted, the people stroll away and soon the birds settle again on their previous stations, silent, somnolent, replete.