I GOT to the pub a tad late on Friday, to my detriment. Not only was I just in time to buy a round, but Ivor the landlord, was due a tonic as well as the gin, much to Rog’s amusement. Carley was behind the bar in full Halloween gear and masterfully served a pint of Smith’s.

That was all good and fine, but as Rog drinks like a shower drain, I was only halfway through when he was requiring a refill. I asked for a half to top up what I had. Another barperson served that one and a very strangely-coloured concoction arrived on the bar. She was confused with the beer being in a Guinness glass and topped it up with the Irish nectar.

Ivor, with rare generosity, told her to pull a fresh one, but suggested one of the locals in the next bar will consume it – “but charge him two quid”, he yelled, a bit like Arkwright in Open All Hours.

Getting over this trauma, talk turned to important things like football and the weather. However, I was delighted to be able to convey to the crowd the fact that I had seen a marsh tit in the garden the day before. Gasps all round – not!

But, in reality, they are a lovely small bird and very hard to tell from the willow tit, the main difference being the marsh tit having a glossy black cap.

In fact, marsh tits stay pretty much in their preferred area all year round and are quite common in Cornwall.

I had put out a feeder with sunflower hearts in it and they seem to love it. However, they aren’t easily seen, and I was pleased about it, even if my audience was totally unmoved. Easier just to have another pint.