I left my hat on the train today. This was a devastating turn of events, not because it was a particularly sexy hat but because it was one of the few hats in the world that actually managed to cover my enormous fat head.
So I spent two hours stomping up and down Princes Street in search of a replacement. It gets rather humiliating after you’ve wrestled the twenty-seventh bit of wool onto your scone only for it to ping off across the room. Stinking winter. When I lived in Australia I never felt the cold enough to need a stinking winter hat.
Then again if I was back in Australia I’d be having an even more frustrating time trying to find a summer bonnet that didn’t make me look like a farmer. At least if you have a shit hat in Scotland, it’s usually dark outside so no one can see how ridiculous you look.
I finally settled on a beret but I could tell the Jenners lady doubted it would work from the way she looked from the hat to my head to the hat to my head again. “Just so you know miss,” she said primly, “We don’t do returns on these.”