Heads.

We woke up to snow this morning. Yippee. It is only the second time in the last seven years or so, according to the locals. A bit of a shock to the system compared to Friday's sunshine, but a welcome one.

April, May and June are my favourite months of the year to be out in the garden. Everything's fresh and green and growing (usually). I like pottering around, the sun is not too hot and, apart from the power-tool-mad retiree community, it's usually still fairly quiet.

But last Friday, the sun came out yelling "Get Yer Kit Off!" Even I felt sufficiently enthused to go outside without a coat on. My neighbours, however, are made of sterner, Empire-building stuff. They rushed to follow these instructions to the letter. First, the Noisy Family drag out their barbecue and patio heater for the first trip of the summer, and the air was soon full of foul and fowl smells, accompanied by beer-fuelled squawking to Radio 1. So I cleared off to the front garden.

What a sight. My middle-aged to elderly male neighbours are doing their usual inflexible rota of car washing, hedge trimming and lawn mowing but have all shed their clothes to do so. Apart from teeny, weeny, tatty pairs of shorts, that is. Accompanied by normal socks and shoes that look as though they are relics from their business suit days. A strange and nauseating sight.

Why they should feel this is necessary in the first week of April is beyond me. It was warm but not exactly a heatwave. Is there some sort of suntan competition for retired men? Does the sun remind them of their national service days in Egypt where the heat or limited washing facilities necessitated removal of clothing? Do they think the ladies around here admire their moobs? Or are they just annoyingly bonkers?

But it has snowed and all is right with the world. Nobody wants to stop and have a chat with Powerhose Pete - it's too cold. So he's kept his clothes on.