Not to Be Trusted.


I’m concerned that the woolly hat I've unleashed on the public today makes me look like I'm up to something nefarious.

It’s a Christmas present I hadn't worn outside the house until this evening, mainly due to the reason above. The transformation it brings about is miraculous. I become an identikit representation of myself; the sort of person I’d cross the road to avoid, if that weren't an impossibility. I'm sure that Kirsty Young's talked about me on Crimewatch. 

(Or was it Baywatch?)

My beanie was debuted out of necessity. I woke up today to no hot water; a situation that didn't improve as the day went on, despite my extensive(-ly limited) troubleshooting. Consequently, every bathroom visit has been made with my kettle in tow, which weren’t conducive to hair-washing ability. Until the problem is fixed, I'm 'Mr Thinsulate': the toastiest, yet shiftiest of the Mr Men.

So, if you see me on the street, don’t be afraid: I'm mostly harmless (like Earth in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy) – and if you want a laugh, whip the hat off. Without it, I’m essentially channelling Ken Dodd.

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