Philip Judge

I coughed aggressively and tried a rehearsed phrase.

On they came.

There was nothing for it but to deploy the coat.

I opened it wide, waved my arms frantically at the lead cow and went, The herd stopped in its tracks and stared timidly at me.

I snorted with relief and waved my stick in delight.

Then, with a nonchalant air that belied my inner confusion, I herded them up the hill.

The coat had not let me down.

Instead of a tremulous pillock in an inappropriate outfit, the cattle had seen the apparition of a thundering Jesuit threatening hellfire.

Or else they imagined a gargantuan crow and it really messed with their heads.

Either way, it did the trick.

In the barn, the cattle were led through a narrow passage where they were held still long enough for the vet to test for TB and for them to defecate copiously, mainly over me.

My coat has now declined sadly from the pristine elegance of its London days.

It hangs in the garage, crumpled, stained and smelling dubiously.

But it has fulfilled its destiny with grace and honour.