The discussion turned to hat wear in the office today. I’m not sure why but it sure beat the usual chatter of who’s nobbing who and sundry plots to bring down the management (P.S. thanks for reading, dear work colleagues).
I don’t wear a hat but like most non-hat-wearers I’d secretly like to.
Or rather I’d like to have the style and panache to get away with wearing a hat without looking like a complete dick.
Over the years I’ve tried several in my vain attempts to find some skull-wear that actually suits me: panamas, trilbies, the ubiquitous baseball cap, even at one time a Goth cowboy hat courtesy of a brief dalliance with The Field Of The Nephilim.
And I’ve looked an idiot in all of them.
Of course it may be that I look an idiot out of them too but nevertheless I have persevered faithfully in my search.
Until finally, last year, during a wet week in Wales, I came at last across my bonnet paramour in a tacky climbing / souvenir shop in Betws-y-Coed.
The good old fashioned Great British cloth-cap.
I think Karen was as stunned as I was. My God. Here it is. A hat that actually suits me.
I didn’t buy it.
I have a penchant for wearing proper waterproof hill-walking jackets having given up on the efficacy of umbrellas years ago (they’re just mini money pits). Couple such a jacket with such a hat and you have...
...Foggy from Last Of The Summer Wine.
Need I say more? I may not have much choice when it comes to fashionable head gear but credit me with some sartorial sense.