Priesting

The day I was due to be electrocuted (therapeutic not judicial, even Suffolk is not that right wing) I had a late reprieve! The powers that be judged I had regained my wonderful sense of rhythm and the future for me lay in drugs not electrification. I am nothing if not a pathfinder for my country.
My own view is that the NHS had run out of shillings for the lecky meter and needed a few bob prior to privatisation, however, we will let that go.

Given that we were not doing anything else, Lady BP and yours truly went off to the local wildlife trust. A lovely day and glad to be electrically neutral we wandered thither and yon looking for a kingfisher or two (Ed... you're getting carried away and besides this blog can not afford more than one kingfisher at a time!)

In one of the hides we spotted a heron, priesting, as we say along with Dylan; Thomas that is not Bob. A completely different kettle of herring. ( Ed... Jesus, let's do the artwork and get out of here back to the asylum before you are locked out. )

Snapped on the old Magi-Phone, not very good, but you can see, surely, the blatant levitical posturing of the bird in the centre