Last autumn, I was amazed at how many acorns hit me. I was regularly walking along racking my brains, trying to remember if great acorn showers with every gust of wind were a new thing or a normal thing, before I had to stop racking my brains and run for cover in case I got them knocked out.
After about a month of it, I began to believe squirrels were waiting in the high branches and chucking things at me. Squirrels where I live, being red, have been given special protection status and I think they know they can get away with just about anything. You'd think that, given that I harboured those type of thoughts, I'd already been hit by one too many acorns, but no, I very soon learnt to wear a woolly hat with my hoodie over the top, as a makeshift crash helmet, whenever I walked down oak-tree-lanes.
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