I always and only think of herons as solitary birds. It has been my assumption to date that any and all romantic machinations herons undertake are probably dealt with via the Royal Mail.

Dearest Isabella, I can’t begin to tell you how much your personalised floral notelet correspondence has meant to me. I shall always remember you as the enigmatic siren of the English waterways, with your skinny, knobbly, legs, your Notre Dame-esque hunch and your face like a young Hitler with a beak. It is best that we treasure our time together and never meet again. You are now with egg.

Clarence, you bastard. You took advantage of me while I was catatonic and staring into the muddy waters of the Middlewich Branch. My legs, shoulders and face are just perfect, thank you, it is you who looks as though you’ve forgotten to retract your undercarriage whenever you fly off…