Today, the weather improved. It was an unheard of 15 degrees in London – and sunny.

I had a bad hair day this week. I went to Petersfield, the main town, near the Old Rectory, for a blow dry. Unless you have locks like Rapunzel, keeping a groomed look in the damp British winter is a challenge. There are a lot of women sporting baseball hats in the park, in an attempt to stave off the winter frizz. So if I have something special in the diary, I head to the hairdresser.

Sadly, I am no longer a natural blonde. I went dark whilst studying law; too many hours indoors in front of a book. So when the regrowth strip appears along my parting, like an airport runway, my hair needs even more grooming to look fresh – more regular washing.

So, back to my story. Earlier this week, I headed to a new salon in Petersfield. I was asked how I’d like my hair done. I replied that I would like “Movement…body.” She looked dubious that this could be achieved; my hair was scraped back in a messy pony tail.

One hour later…I left the salon looking like my grandmother after she’d had a perm. And it was more expensive than the Blow Dry Bars in London. The word ‘bouffant’ comes to mind.

Today, I am playing tennis again. My hair looks dreadful; the blow dry lasted about five minutes. The next day, I woke up and headed past a mirror. Now the hair had morphed into Medusa, the female Greek Goddess with snakes wiggling all over her head instead of hair.

It is a sad fact, but if your hair looks good, you feel good. Well, I do.

These days you tend to wear ‘fascinators’ to weddings, a little trinket in your hair like feathers. Back in the 80s and 90s, pheasants wore hats. It covered a multitude of sins.

I remember when I qualified for the Supreme Court of England and Wales in the early 1990s, I decided I needed a change of appearance. I treated myself to a new hairstyle. Such a mistake, to act impulsively, at a juncture in your life. After the cut, I looked like I had massive angel wings glued to either side of my head.

Geoff was not happy. He loathed it and even paid for me to head to an expensive salon in Albemarle Street, Mayfair, to rectify the situation.

The French hairdresser declared, “It’s all got to come off.” So, chop, the wings hit the floor, and I had a very severe bob, like Anna Wintour, the editor of Vogue.

It’s time to head back to Richard Ward in Sloane Square and sort myself out.