The sun has got his hat on.

I don’t do hats, they just do not suit me. I have a theory that either my ears are too near the top of my head, or they make them too deep. Whichever, the brim always ends up resting on my ears, bending them over slightly and making me look a right prat.


Because of this, having the allotment has brought me up against something of a dilemma, sunburn. There is no shade whatsoever down there so I’m totally dependent on sun cream, and I hate it. After an application it’s not long before I resemble one of those old sticky flypapers, with greenfly all over my face.

And how the hell do you get it on to your scalp? It’s easy for all you follically challenged people out there, but not being bald does have its disadvantages you know. Putting it on my hair spoils that carefully coiffured look that I’m renown for, it’s called a short back and sides in the trade. So there I sit on the plot enviously watching all the others looking so natural and cool in their hats, while I bake like a sun dried tomato.

Whilst in town last week I decided to bring matters to a head, so to speak, and find one that I can wear and not scare the grandchildren.

The first I tried was the standard flat cap, as they were giving away mufflers and live whippets with them, and I’m always up for a bargain. It was similar to the one my father used to wear when he was alive, and when I looked in the mirror I jumped back, there he was staring back at me.

Mrs Netall tried her hardest not to laugh, but failed, “Try a baseball cap”, she suggested.

Now as far as I‘m concerned there should be a law brought in immediately to stop men over a certain age from wearing them. So not exactly taking the suggestion seriously, I put one on backwards and pretended I was riding a skateboard. It didn’t stay on my head very long, when she hit me with her handbag and told me to stop embarrassing her.

At one point I picked up one of those Russian fur hats. Apparently it's called a Ushanka, which could be rhyming slang for what I would look like in it I suppose, and translates to ‘Ear Flap’ hat. Well that would take care of my particular problem I thought, but soon put it down again when I saw her handbag hand twitching.

Lastly in desperation, I tried on a kind of bush hat in blue denim, that didn’t look too ridiculous I thought, even though it had a brim wide enough to shade a glass of Fosters, and was only missing the corks on strings.

“ But… I look like Crocodile Dundee”, I protested to no avail, as she dragged me off to pay for it.

So on the plot the first day of wearing it, I was feeling a little bit self-conscious but not too bad, until Old John came along that is. He was on his way to the water tap, and I was sure I could hear him whistling ‘Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport’, as he approached my plot.

Pausing at the gate, he looked over to where I was doing some weeding.

“Summat’s been at yer cabbages I see”, he observed.

“Yes”, I said, “ I haven’t a clue what’s doing it”

“It’s them Koala Bears you know…. little buggers they are”, he replied, and with a toothless grin ambled off with his watering can.