I SAW another red kite in the Dales this week.

I watched it hovering for a while and then it made a little shrieking noise which I think meant “I’ve heard that raptors often get shot around here.

How do I avoid this bloody end?”

I shrieked back that it should probably stick to the military ranges, prompting a reply that, I think, noted the irony in my advice. You couldn’t make it up, although if you did you might be surprised to find it published in one of the country’s best-loved and longest running weekly newspapers, which still costs less than a service station can of pop.

Almost as thrilling as a talking red kite with a keen wit was the discovery this week that I could get the full 20p off every litre of fuel using my Tesco clubcard.

What unbridled joy modern life can deliver if you’re prepared to embrace the mundane. They call them loyalty cards but I’ve got one of each, tee-hee.

In other news, the youngest boy and I enjoyed a very pleasant evening playing touch rugby at Wensleydale RUFC last week. The sessions are running every Friday through the summer from 6.30pm.

Anyone from six upwards can take part and no experience of playing rugby is necessary.

After that shameful plug, I feel I should offer the column up for any other community activities that would like a little bit of a push, although I can’t promise anyone other than you and my family members will read it.

And they only give the column a quick once-over to make sure I’ve not libelled them again.

Finally, if there’s one thing more tedious than people whinging about the Tour de France, it’s people whinging about people whinging about the Tour de France.

Fortunately, I’m now whinging about people whinging about people whinging about the Tour de France, which is actually quite interesting.

Of course, if someone now whinges about me whinging about people whinging about people whinging, it will again be tedious.

Those are the rules, I’m afraid. I don’t make them up.

OK, I do.

The race has now finished.

Let’s all move on with gladness in our hearts that we don’t live in war-torn Syria. Or Withernsea.