And so it was that I awaited the family's return from their week long residence on the East Coast with somewhat less than bated breath.

And their offering didn't disappoint.

It was a Panama hat – but not one of those rather fine ones that a gentleman can roll up and store away when travelling in foreign climes.

No, this was a £2.50 special from Matalan which had the appearance of being manufactured from reclaimed horse feed.

Still, it did have a rather jaunty look to it when I put it on and on Sunday (when the summer sun briefly shone) I decided to wear it – much to the embarrassment of my elder daughter who, basically, refused to walk anywhere near me while I had it on.

I've been wanting a Panama hat for a long time.

I suppose it is one of those indications of middle age that a baseball cap no longer looks appropriate.

But every time I've got near to buying one I've taken a step backwards after trying it on.

I just don't think I've got a head for hats, sadly.

But as I've said, for all its bargain basement credentials – one wag at the weekend suggested Mrs S must have taken the "Kiss Me Quick" band off it before handing it over – this one didn't look too bad.

"I reckon," I said spotting my shadow as we walked home from tea at the in-laws on Sunday night, "that I look rather good in this.What do you think? Indiana Jones?"

"You look more like Poirot," said my still less than impressed daughter.

A couple of teenagers passed us at one point and I couldn't tell if their giggling was the result of some joke between them or the sight of me in my hat.

Still, as we neared Normanton Towers I gained the seal of approval from an unlikely source.

Uncertain on his feet, but still managing to cling on to his can of lager, a starry-eyed chap approached us.

He gave me a look which I began to fear might have been leading to some act of violence.

But I was wrong.

"Nice hat," he slurred before he shuffled on his way.

"Did he just say what I thought he said?" I asked Mrs S, who confirmed it.

"Well there you go," I said.

"You'd have thought that people in Normanton have never seen a hat before," I added.

"Well, they've certainly never seen one like that before," quipped my daughter.

"What do you mean. This was £2.50 from Matalan," I rebuked her. "How much more chavvy can you get?"

At which point Mrs S who, unlike me, has spent most of her life in Normanton called me a snob – and I thought it best if I shut up.


'Bring on the ugly Shielas'


I'VE absolutely no idea whether the Mayor of the Aussie town of Mount Isa is a "looker" or a "minger" but, as befits the antipodean stereotype, he's certainly got colourful views, in this case, on the subject of beauty.

It seems a severe female drought has gripped Mount Isa, which has been dubbed the "beer goggle capital of Australia".

Now its number one citizen John Molony – who describes himself as "a bloke who respects women" – thinks he has the answer: importing more ugly girls.

In his rough, tough, mining town, men outnumber women by around five to one.

And Mr Molony – who clearly belongs to the Sir Les Patterson school of Aussie charm, as depicted by Barry Humphries – reckons that "beauty-disadvantaged" women should go there without delay.

He said, I kid you not: "May I suggest if there are five blokes to every girl, we should find out where there are beauty-disadvantaged women and ask them to proceed to Mount Isa.

"Often those who are beauty-disadvantaged are unhappy with their lot. Some, in other places in Australia, need to proceed to Mount Isa where happiness awaits.

"And, really, beauty is only skin deep. Isn't there a fairy tale about an ugly duckling that evolves into a beautiful swan?"

It's views like these which makes you realise why God made Australia a rather overlarge pimple on the bottom of the world.


Please give it a rest, Paula


I FEEL really sorry for Mara Yamouchi.

"Who?" you might ask, and for good reason.

She's the unlucky Brit whose excellent performance in the Olympic marathon was completely eclipsed by the latest tearful episode involving Paula Radcliffe.

Is it just me, or has the nation had enough of her tears and frailty? If there was a gold medal for blubbing, she'd win it by a country mile.

It was bad enough four years ago when her Athens dream turned into a nightmare but to have to sit through another bout of heartbreak and waterworks was just too much for me.

The simple fact is that she probably shouldn't have been running at all. She wasn't fit and, it seems, her personal obsession got the better of considered judgment.

I'm all for dream chasing, but not at the expense of logic.

The whole event made for extremely uncomfortable viewing. You could see the agony, mental as much as physical, on her face as she realised she couldn't cut it.

Now Paula says she wants to run in London 2012.

I just wonder, for her own well-being, whether it wouldn't be best if she took a deep breath and walked away from her demons.

There'd no doubt be a nice little contract from the BBC as a commentator in the offing plus she could spent more quality time with her young family.

It's a very hard thing to give up something you love but a very clever thing to recognise when the time is right.