Philip Judge

Many years ago in London, I acquired a coat I had yearned for.

It was long, black and waxed, with a little half-shoulder cape.

Trail dusters, I think they were called.

I sashayed around Soho delighted with myself, thinking I was cool, edgy and slightly flamboyant.

I now suspect I actually resembled a slightly inebriated Christian brother.

But I kept the coat to remind me that though I have never been a fashion victim, I have sometimes been a sartorial fool.

So when our farming friend and neighbour asked if I'd help him herding cattle for the day, I said yes.

I had the very garment.

The next morning I rehearsed a few useful phrases such as easy there and go on your good thing.

Then I strode up to the cross in wellies, the coat and a jaunty black waxed cap to match.

I also carried a stick for waving at cattle.

At the barn, the farmer tactfully suppressed a grin and said he hoped I didn't mind getting my coat spattered with cow manure.

My hesitation was only split second.

Not at all, I replied cheerfully.

I hadn't expected to be soiled.

I just thought I'd be gently encouraging Daisy and Buttercup along the lane with a useful phrase and a click of the tongue.

Later that day, I was smeared in bovine excrement and sweating niagarously.

But I get ahead of myself.

First we had to get the cows.

We headed down the lane on the quad bike.