I HAVE a completely unscientific theory that certain people give out their own unique auras that have a dramatic effect on everything around them.

Take Mrs Hextol; hand her the most fractiously screaming baby, and within minutes of landing red faced and roaring in her arms , it has become a slumbering bundle of quiet contentment.

Whether it’s her soft and gentle voice, her air of serene calmness or sheer willpower I don’t know, but few children can resist her hypnotic charms.

I have a friend who used to work in a top security prison, responsible for some of the the most notorious mass murderers in British history, and he too speaks of the chilling air of menace exuded by some of them, even when offering to share the secrets of a recipe for potato scones.

“I couldn’t bring myself to even try the recipe,” he confided with a shudder.

I too possess similar strange powers, but I wish I could divest myself of them – there is not much to be said in favour of inducing animals to wee on you.

My unwanted gift manifested itself yet again at the weekend, when we were looking after my son’s cockerpoo for a few days while he was away on a family holiday.

The pup and I had history; when I was first introduced to it as a baby last year, it leapt on my lap and emptied its bladder so copiously I was drenched to the underpants.

Since then, it has gained a semblance of bladder control in my presence, the merest dribble escaping only at times of high excitement.

Yet the other day, it was lying on the settee snuggled up next to Mrs Hextol when I appeared in my dressing gown after a soak in the bath following an arduous bike ride.

The dog leapt to its feet and launched a fusillade of furious barking at the unfamiliar apparition in the long coat, and I made the mistake of rushing up to her to let her know it was only the fat man who had been taking her for walks the previous few mornings.

The result was a cascade which not only soaked me, but also dampened the settee, and earned me a severe wigging from Mrs Hextol; not only for soiling the settee, but also frightening the little dog.

I have long been an unwitting target for the bodily outpourings of all manner of creatures, including an incontinent tortoise I was carrying inside my coat for some reason long forgotten.

It left a vivid yellow stain across my shirt which was unaffected by multiple boilings and poundings in the poss tub, and several passages through the mangle.

I was once walking across Hexham Market Place to attend a meeting of Tynedale Council recreation and amenities committee at Prospect House, when I was struck by something warm and foetid.

I looked at my reflection in the window of the Central Bakery, and it was as though someone had emptied an entire pot of fruits of the forest yoghurt on my head.

I swabbed at it ineffectually with my hankie, and I am sure I heard a triumphant snigger as the guilty pigeon flapped its way back to its roost on top of the Abbey.

I had to return to the office for a complete swill down in the Courant loos, before arriving back at the council meeting somewhat late, and doubtless smelling like the inside of a parrot’s cage,

I also recall being deliriously excited at being allowed to go rabbit shooting with my father on a summer visit to my uncle’s farm in Cumberland.

I was so hyper-active, I was seriously as risk of being shot myself by my frustrated father, as my childish babbling threatened to alert every rabbit within 20 miles that their days could be numbered.

But as we crested a rise close to a valley known as the Little Ghyll, my father motioned for me to hit the deck – a rabbit was nibbling the grass about 50 yards away!

My father adopted the prone position, raised the .22 rifle to his shoulder, and after what seemed an eternity, pulled the trigger. The rabbit dropped like a stone, and I was after it almost as quickly as the bullet.

I pounced on the limp form and triumphantly lifted it high to show my dad what he had done – and in a defiant last twitch of its cooling muscles, the rabbit conducted a post mortem pee all over me.