I have decided that I am not suited to hats. In fact, they seem to do everything they can to get away from me. I started wearing baseball caps in Australia because a. they looked cool; and b. they prevented my shaven scalp from turning bright red (ok, my bald head if you must).
By the time I returned I had seven of the things, quite an impressive collection.
But since being back with my motley crew over here in Wales that number has been whittled down to four - even though I added a couple of new ones in the process.
On Boozeday Tuesday my white New York Yankees cap disappeared. There seems to be a theme here. It goes: Wear cap to work, go out on lash, leave cap in some pub or other, forget where you had been the next morning when you realise cap has gone missing. Give it up as lost.
Mind you, it used to be far worse. I don't know what it is about alcohol, but my previous tendency used to be to empty the contents of my pockets - including credit cards, money, cigarette papers, tobacco and chewing gums - onto a pub table then walk away in blissful ignorance, forgetting to collect said property on my departure.
At one stage I was on my eighth credit card for the year, having had to phone in and cancel about one every week. I'm sure the bank thought it was a scam.
This in turn reminds me of Saturday when, leaving the office after a typically gruelling 15-hour day, I had scrounged a lift from Brammy in his Morris Minor circa 1920.
I sank into the well-worn seats, helpless, and scrabbled around for 10 minutes before finally locating the two loose, frayed pieces ofplastic masquerading as a seatbelt.
Thirty minutes later, after a pleasant trip in which passing drunks had lapped us on a circuit of Cardiff, he finally dropped me off at my house.
What better thing to do after such a hard day than make a lovely cup of tea, put your feet out and smoke a cigarette. Relaxing.
At least it would be if you could find your cigarettes. Patting down my pockets, the niggling thought crossed my mind that my tobacco didn't seem to be anywhere on my person. I turned the flat upside down and then rang Smashy to see if I had left it in the office. Nada. I even went outside barefoot to see if it was in the rain-sodden driveway. Then it dawned on me: My baccy must have fallen out when I was lying virtually horizontal on Brammy's unstuffed car seats, trying to locate the safety belt.
Panic set in and what should have been a cool, relaxing moment turned into a stressful search around the flat for any leftover grains of baccy.
At that moment I even sent Brammy a text knowing full well that he wouldn't reply because not only was he half way back to Newport but also he never, ever answers his mobile phone. Brammy, you see, is so scared his mobile will run out of batteries that he only turns it on for a brief few seconds every time he wants to send a message. Then it stays off for the next two days so if you want to reply to the message you are stuffed.
Anyway, no reply.
Finally my eyes fixed on the ashtray and I didn't feel good about myself, in fact I felt like a common criminal scrabbling for snout on the floor of his cell, picking up strands of baccy along with hair, dead beetles etc to turn into the thinnest roll up of all time.
Well, maybe not that bad. But I did go through the ashtray, take out the butts, empty the tobacco from them onto a rizla paper, until I had enough for an exceedingly thin roll up. And yes, dear reader, I smoked it. Terrible.
Two days later my mobile phone announces a text has arrived. "I HAVE FOUND YOUR BACCY" says the message, the giveaway is that it is in caps as always.
Well, thanks Brammy, you b*!?*+d. Don't ever think of giving me a lift home again.