I went to see my rehabber friend, Deborah, yesterday, lured by the prospect of seeing a brood of three Corn Bunting nestlings that had been rescued from the plough.
No sooner had I sat down than this cheeky fellow came and perched on my head. He's in fine condition and should be ready for release very soon.
But before I left, I decided to give him a good talking-to: landing on an old scrote's head causes a serious loss of dignity. I don't think he was really listening, or, if he was, he showed no sign of giving a damn::