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?