Last updated 13:22, Thursday, 24 April 2008

I WAS just coming in with the dog on Monday morning when I felt a large drop of rain splatter directly on top of my head.

Then I realised there was a clear blue sky above me, and that I had been bombed by a bird.

I was already washed, booted and spurred ready for work, and by the suppressed smirk on the dog’s face I knew this was no near miss.

I rushed inside fearing the worst, and a quick glance in the mirror confirmed that someone appeared to have emptied a pot of yoghurt on my head.

I went upstairs to tell Mrs Hextol of my fate, but she could only say: “Well, it’s a good job you caught it all on your head, because your other work suit is still at the cleaners.”

I tried scraping the ordure off with kitchen roll, but the bird must have been feasting on sticky toffee pudding, because it defied all efforts to dislodge it.

So, I had to divest myself of my recently acquired garments, and go back in the shower I had vacated not 15 minutes before.

The bombing incident was the last straw of an eventful few days, when my unfortunate gene was manifesting itself brazenly at every opportunity.

It started when we paid a rare visit to my brother’s home in Greater Manchester.

I was just making myself comfortable on a kitchen chair when there was a tortured rending of timber.

“You’ve broke me chair, you fat sod,” declared the bestial bro, whose English may have been awry, but a dangling chair leg confirmed his sentiments were spot on.

When we got home, we went out for a meal, but only after Mrs Hextol had set the Sky Plus to record four episodes of her favourite soaps.

She could not understand why they failed to record, but it may have had something to do with me repeatedly flicking channels to Sky Sports Extra for a football update.

Diplomatically, I said nowt.

Then on Sunday, Mrs Hextol and I were about to sit down to a quiet Sunday lunch for two when number one son and grand-daughter landed seeking refreshment.

The modest chicken we had purchased suddenly seemed less than adequate, but Mrs Hextol is an expert at making meals stretch, and all plates were full.

The problem arose when it came to puddings, for the punnet of early English strawberries we were about to share between us was clearly inadequate, particularly as grand-daughter Erin is a hopeless strawberryaholic.

She can make strawberries disappear quicker than a charity flag seller can emp-ty Sauchiehall Street, and four went as she was “helping” me to take off the green bits.

“We’ll make them go further by having them with ice cream,” whispered Mrs Hextol, and I was despatched to rummage through the freezer to locate that tub of Cornish soft scoop we purchased a couple of months ago.

I think we possibly had a case against the manufacturers, because when I eventually found it, soft scoop it definitely was not.

It was tougher than titanium, remaining impervious to serving spoon, table spoon and even carving knife.

Then I had a brainwave – why didn’t I soften the block by giving it a quick 30-second zapping in the microwave?

In it went, but as I twisted the dial I was called to the phone, and immediately forgot about it.

Mrs Hextol came to the rescue, pulling it out after a minute or so, but the damage was done.

A sizeable blob of ice cream remained, but it was surrounded by a sea of bubbling milk, seething like a Hawaiian lava lake.

I tried to put a brave face on things by making out the situation was not entirely lost, and plunged in my spoon to demonstrate the confection was still perfectly edible.

I don’t know if you have ever tried red hot ice cream, but it is not to be recommended.

The agony was such my arm went into spasm, and swept the bowl containing the strawberries on to the kitchen floor.

They were followed by a river of molten ice cream, as the container burst its banks.

There was a stunned silence, punctuated by an anguished “Granda!” as Erin saw her pudding disappear.

By a stroke of luck, several strawberries had stayed in the bowl, so she wasn’t entirely deprived, but it may be some while before I’m entrusted with serving dessert again.