Now the weather has tuned itself into Old Testament stylie good and proper I decided, as I charged round the house like a dervish on turbo this morning, that 'hat' was essential.

Grabbed the beret which, with my natty trench coat, gives me the air of a french resisitance heroine *knows reality is Frank Spencer lookie-likie but I prefer blissful ignorance so back off with your reality thing*.

Looked at beret. Felt wrong. Felt felty.

Put beret on. Beret wouldn't go on head. Ran to mirror. Beret perched on crown of head. Very wrong.

Either head has grown with dissertation brains or beret has somehow fallen into washing machine and been shrunk... mystery. Obviously chief suspect is Nibs with his blind-as-bat eyesight and habit of just scooping everything up in vicinity and washing it.

I know there has been much Nibs bashing this week but I've had a flashback to seeing beret on the clothes horse a few weeks ago and thinking that was a bit odd at the time.

Of course he denies all knowledge but then how would he know? He can't remember my birthday!