Okay, folks, you're listening to the latest chapter, the latest great adventure, from Life on Planet Porky, with myself the Portmeister, and of course, the rock chick-a-writer, Extraordinary, Ms. Leslie and Jones.

Miss Jones, how are you this very day?

Well, absolutely fine, apart from the fact that it's so cold in London at the moment. It's like

being in Verbier, isn't it? I can't believe it, right? So I go into my roof garden every morning to

refill the bird bath, okay? It's not all, it doesn't empty overnight, but like to clean the water

and all that kind of stuff. For the last three mornings, the bird bath has been frozen solid. And I don't

mean, you know, where you can sort of tap it with your finger and break the ice. I'm talking about

solid. I can't believe how the temperatures overnight have dropped to minus three, minus four, and the bird bath, which is always my sort of barometer of what the weather's like, doesn't even go liquid till 11 o'clock in the morning. It's extraordinary weather.

So do you find you get an influx of poor thirsty birds landing on your roof terrace because they can't

get it anywhere else? Listen, when they land on the bird bath and I watch them, it's part of my sort

of mental health therapy, the poor bird sometimes land and then skid off, if you see what

mean, like an airplane landing on a runway that doesn't

take tyres, you know what I mean? And I, you know, the first thing I do every morning is a

boiler kettle go out there, try to unfreeze the bird bath, but if it's solid, you can't,

and all that happens is after about 10 minutes, the water you put on top freezes again.

So it's a bit worrying.

But what you have to do is just keep taking out trays of water for the birds.

Anyway, sorry, this is not a bird sanctuary story.

Sounds like a twitcher, Michael.

Yeah, well, I'm not a twit.

I tell you it was a Twitter, actually, and quite amazed me.

Do you remember Wolfman of Fleet Street?

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