l ON Saturday morning, perched down by Diglis Weir, I watched in sickly fascination as a heron methodically battered an eel into submission.

Eels take a bit of killing, and this two-foot-long individual was still alive when he slid down old grey coat's neck. I wonder - at what stage does the fish die and does it tickle his murderer as he begins his ghastly descent into the acid bath of eternity?

lWALKING under the Edgar Tower at Worcester Cathedral I was suddenly reminded of a daft silly season news story.

Do you remember the one about the mystery hand prints in the sandstone wall? You may recall that someone was convinced the mysterious marks were handprints.

This was, of course, a load of fantastic rubbish. The marks were made by Civil War soldiers sharpening their weapons, just before the Battle of Worcester. It just goes to show that truth is always stranger than friction.

lI MUST admit to a slightly wild youth, although please don't tell my daughters.There were a number of occasions when I could easily have been killed in car or bike crashes. Whenever I view pathetic piles of scruffy flowers and faded epitaphs by the roadside I lament the fact that so many will never know how great their lives might have been.