My colleague Dykesy on the Screws has some very strange ways about him and one is the way he comes up with some rather bizarre decrees that the rest of us have to follow. Why we follow them I have absolutely no idea, because we really should just ignore them.
Nevertheless, rather like an indoctrinated sect, we religiously follow the rules of our news editor, which are known in these parts as Dykesy's law.
And one of these strange decrees is that once the clocks have gone forward and British summertime commences that it is illegal to wear a big winter coat to work.
Now, bearing in mind global warming and the fact that only last week there was snow falling in the northern parts of the country this can be quite a chore. Plus the fact on occasion the quaint little phrase April Showers can actually mean a torrent, nay deluge, of rain. Summertime in these parts is not quite the same as it might be in, say, Australia or on the Costa Brava.
Last week though the mighty one, having given his annual sermon and ripped into anyone who wore anything even resembling warm outdoor clothing, was hoisted by his own petard.
Not having past his driving test, he arrived at work after a particularly arduous journey courtesy of our pretty unpredictable public transport system, cursing and muttering under his breath.
Having had to wait on cold platforms for an indeterminate period, and then having to trudge through London's streets during a downpour, the inclement "Spring" weather had left him with wet socks and a chill permeating every bone in his body.
One wonders whether the law may be repealed in the near future.
When you are swimming length after length of the local pool there isn't really much to think about, so you tend to find your mind wandering. This happened to me as I tried to work off some of the Easter excesses this morning.
Midway through my session I began to think about the impending birth of my second child and the things we might encounter as he or she grows into a teenager. And somehow I hit upon the worst case scenario.
What if, I wondered to myself, my son or daughter came in one day and decided to have one of those "honest" conversations? Would it go something like this?
"Hi mum, dad. There is something I have got to tell you."
Both Mrs R and myself, though obviously being filled with trepidation, would put on a united front. We would sit our offspring down at the table, turn off our phones, and ask: "Of course, dear, what is it?"
"Well, for some time now I have been hiding a secret from you but have decided to come clean. I don't really know how to tell you this but... I am a sh**head."
Can you imagine it? All that time we had been dropping off the youngster, believing them to be going to a convention of the gay/lesbian rights group, they had actually been sneaking down to Ashton Gate to see the team whose name we dare not mention.
Awful... simply awful.