So, here we are, driving through suburbia from the home of No. 1 Son to No. 1 Daughter, when we pull up at your normal, everyday set of traffic lights.
I'm intending to turn left and go past the front of a small parade of shops, maybe four or five different tenancies with big glass windows. That sort of thing.
As I'm waiting to turn, a loaf of bread literally falls from the sky and lands on the footpath a mere five yards away.
It would be fair to say we were somewhat surprised.
I mean, where we live, the only thing that comes out of the sky is rain - although a neighbour's tennis ball did nearly scone me last summer while he was playing backyard cricket with his kids and got a little overenthusiastic. Anyway.
We're sitting at the lights and this loaf - not actually a loaf you understand, more a ginormous hunk of bread - has crashed through the atmosphere to land beside us.
Naturally, being steeped in the world of inquisitive journalism as I am/was, the incident demands closer perusal, so I pull in out of the traffic flow for a closer look.
I'm just about to get out of the car when an enormous seagull – I'm talking well over knee-high and bigger than anything I've ever seen before - arrives from above. And he's not happy.
Very quickly, the mystery of the falling loaf begins to clear itself up.
Obviously, what had happened is that Mr Seagull had been having a good old rummage around the back of the bakery at the end of the parade of shops, found a tasty hunk of bread which would satisfy his family's appetite for a week or so, and so set sail for his humble abode.
I'm thinking 20 metres into the flight, he's worked out his eyes are bigger than his belly (or in this case, his grip) and dropped the thing.
Now he's got a problem. But it's about to get worse.
Not only is the family's dinner and dessert for five nights sitting in a vulnerable spot on the footpath; there are now vultures circling.
Strictly speaking, they are not vultures. More likely sparrows - but there are lots of them. All excitedly chirping at the windfall, but all too small to pinch it.
Mr Seagull knows this, and is not really worrying about them.
He's more concerned about the other giant seagull he's just spotted staring straight back at him on the other side of the prized chunk of bread.
There's only one thing to do. He needs to let the interloper know who's boss around here and who has the contract for the freight delivery.
And so, as Mrs P and I watch, he launches into an elaborate strutting and screeching routine before charging towards the other bird.
Eventually, the gap between the two is closed to within an inch or two, with neither bird flinching or moving a muscle, their gazes locked together, completely oblivious to their surrounds.
Then the first bird engages in a furious pecking and flapping attack. Again and again, he comes at the second bird. To his dismay, the other bird fights back with exactly the same tactics.
By this stage, even the sparrows have given up trying to pinch a mouthful of the bread from behind the backs of the two protagonists and are standing there quietly, just watching the action.
Now, and I kid you not here, into the midst of this rather strange scene walks, well, a rather unusual-looking character.
I've long given up trying to make sense out of what some people find appropriate attire, so I guess the term 'unusual' very much depends on your dress sense.
Mine is very much boringly average, so if I say "unusual", hopefully you'll know what I mean.
From the top it went: red beanie, headphones, dark sunglasses, yellow shirt, brown and yellow checked suit jacket, knee length light blue shorts, red and white hooped football socks and black shoes.
I am presuming he was listening to something very important on his headphones, because he simply strode right through the middle of the kerfuffle and stood on the kerb waiting for his turn to cross.
His arrival stopped the fight and the seagulls stepped back to check him out.
So, now you've got a completely oblivious walker standing next to an enormous seagull who is looking up at him wondering if he's going to try to make a play for the giant loaf of bread still sitting on the footpath next to the pair of them.
By this stage, Mrs P and I are in hysterics - but like all good scenes, it had to end, and once the lights changed, the newcomer continued on his busy way and the sparrows went off to tell all their mates about what they'd seen.
Mr Seagull had had enough fighting, too, so he took a deep breath, grabbed a corner of the chunk of bread and took off again, leaving Mrs P and I alone to ponder how enjoyable street entertainment was in Christchurch.
"But what about the other seagull?" I hear you say.
I'll let you reflect on my description of the fight and leave you to work it out for yourself.
