The Swan.

Mrs TD had a patchwork workshop in Linlithgow today, she has to use up all those fat quarters on something; so, having duly delivered her to the venue, I took the dogs for a stroll around the loch. After lunch, I left them asleep in the car in the shade of a horse chestnut tree while I went blip hunting. There were lots to choose from, but I found that by sitting on the bank the swans came up to me looking for food and then hissed at me when none was forth-coming. It's a good job I have a thick skin.
One thing bothers me, how do you get the crown of your head so muddy?

There is a story that a swan can break your arm with a single blow from its wing; I remember an investigative journalist researching this, the best he could find was that someone had fallen and sprained his ankle while trying to run away in an effort to avoid having his arm broken.