don’t be dourty

As in the Fry and Laurie sketch.  It’s in the pronunciation.  Dourty.  Which I may be soon.  Dirty.  Dirty filthy.  Dirty filthy twitchering that is.  Now then, dorn’t be dourty!

That little peep thingie at Cley.  A Western Sandpiper.  Seems to be there all the time doesn’t it?  Regular as clockwork isn’t it?  As I understand it,  one can turn up in the early morning, sit in a particular hide, clock the bird and be at the visitor centre for 10am to hand  over a few quid for the use of the hide, browse the bookshop bit, laugh at the sculpture, sup a coffee, pick up a copy of Tern, rub your thighs in Cley Spy and still be back home for lunch.  Piece of wee-wee eh?

Well so long as it hangs on for another week,  I might go and see it. 

I might not.  I mean, I wouldn’t want to get all dourty now, would I?

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