My, what big feet you have, Grandmother

The remains of one of the Derby Peregrine's din-dins. They call it a 'quail', but it looks like a Kingfisher to me. Peregrines maybe birdwatchers, but they are not ornithologists.

The Bath Peregrines started out well as four but one fell out of the nest trying to grab food from a passing adult, and the other just suddenly 'threw itself at the scenery' as Hamish put it. The surviving Norwich chick is being fed very well now, ever since one of the parents accidentally picked up its brother and dropped it over the edge. Oops. That's the trouble with having feet that size.

I wonder if I can get through this post without mentioning polling day? Obviously not.

What many people do not know is that the Conservative tactical nerve-centre and propaganda machine is hidden away in a picturesque cottage in rural France, and Labour's equivalent is in a similarly picturesque and rural cottage in Ireland.

Both buildings are manned by bearded old sages who have seen more governments come and go than the Queen, even though they have not lived or voted in Britain since Lord Haw-Haw broadcast from Berlin, when his own country was supposed to be neutral.

Legend has it that they will - like King Arthur - one day return to the shores of Albion and save the Kingdom/Republic* (delete as appropriate) from falling over the brink into an abyss, but not necessarily at the same time.

One of them is a political Anti-Christ, but we will have to wait until tomorrow to find out which. Even then it will not be crystal clear.