It was, naturally, contradictory advice from that which I gave you yesterday, on how to avoid getting wet when passing a snowblower.
So today's pearl of wisdom is, if you are parked in a lay-by on a beautiful sunny afternoon, beware of what is going on in the field next to you. If you have the passenger's side window wound down, like I did, keep a look out for passing tractors spraying fertiliser pellets.
That is what happened to me. Sitting in the driver's seat, minding my own business and listening to a Radio 5 Sports Report about cricket in Sri Lanka, when several mite sized pellets smacked into my neck and head. Yesterday, you will recall I said the snowblower's emissions made it feel as if I was being shot blasted. Today, it felt more like being sandblasted.
I feel that my upper torso has never been cleaner.
It was nothing really to be surprised about, as it was generally up to the standards of one of my usual ramshackle days. I broke a vase. I ripped my trousers. I listened to a Bishop say that he thought putting on his mitre made his ears stick out and that he felt like a self-propelled tulip and had my own physical defects exposed by a mere traffic cone.
A traffic cone? Have you gone mad? What are you talking about? (I can hear some of you saying).
Yes, a humble traffic cone. One which I parked next to. For on its base the bold writing brought back sore memories of a nickname I had inherited at school. It simply said .................