A mystery parcel arrives. And it isn't from a nutter, for once.

"Bomb delivery," says Greg, first thing this morning, as he walks into the office bearing a large brown cardboard box.

He dumps it on my desk, then adds,

"Luckily, it's for you, not me – so just wait a sec, while I retire to a safe distance. Then open it."

I take no notice, not because I'm brave (or stupid), but because the parcel is clearly addressed to my alter ego. The one who writes the books.

Here's what I found inside. Greg says the fedora suits him best, but it really doesn't. His head's even more enormous than mine.