Today I let an old friend go: a round brown (fake)fur pillbox hat.
It first came into my possession about nineteen years ago, when I was preparing for my 21st – a costume party – and hunting up odd hats in second hand shops for the use of anyone who came without a costume. To my intense surprise, the furry little hat actually fit my remarkably bijou head, and so I kept it and wore it often.
I was wearing it one night as I passed through the centre of Christchurch, returning from an evening theatrical event. It was winter, so I was also wearing my big belted khaki overcoat and sheepskin boots, and as I crossed a largely deserted Cathedral Square en route to the bus station, I heard a distant – and possibly intoxicated – voice cry out, “The Russians are invading!”
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