So I have a new winter hat.
As with most of the clothing I buy, not a lot of thought went into the selection or purchase of this hat, I must admit. It went something like this:
“Shit it’s cold. My head is cold. My ears are very cold. Hmmmm, a hat would be good. Aha, I’m cycling past Primark. They do hats. And lo, here there are. This one’s good: it’s furry and it costs…almost nothing. Perfect. Now, does it fit? Yep. It is warm? Super warm. Does it cover my ears? Yes. Sorted.”
And off I went, hatted.
I’ve now worn this hat for three days (with breaks for showering and taking on/off jumpers, obviously) and I’ve noticed something unusual happening: passers by are looking at me as they, erm, pass by.
My immediate thoughts, quite naturally, were: do I have muffin crumbs on my cheek? Have I applied my mascara using a paint roller? Am I dribbling again?
I’ve checked, and the answer to all of these is ‘no’.
Since I’m also not naked and don’t have a full spiderweb tatooed across my face, I can only conclude that the increased attention is because of….the hat. People are looking, and smiling at the hat. It must be a good, lovely hat, and I must look splendid in it. Result!
This conclusion was confirmed in a beautiful, rare, sweet moment yesterday on my way home. Slithering along the icy roads on my bike like a drunk person, I wobbled past two good-looking young men, walking along the pavement towards me. Just as I trundled past, the taller one looked at me, turned to his friend and I most definitely heard him say these words: “Shit hot.”
Now, let me just explain something right here: when you’ve been married for a considerable chunk of a billion and a half years, have three children and receive compliments as regularly as a two-year-old makes their own dinner, tucks themselves into bed and reads themselves a story, hearing someone say you are ‘shit hot’ can have quite a powerful effect.
A kind of effect that rouses something in you you’d forgotten existed eons ago, because making packed lunches, picking Lego off the toilet floor and pulling your daughter’s hair out of the plughole kind of put a dampener on it. An effect that makes you feel young, beautiful and desirable again, and so sexy that in that moment you would have very loud and acrobatic sex with any passing man, woman or lamp-post that made itself available.
As I mounted the pavement (steady on), smiling to myself at the loveliness of my hat, the sexiness of my glowing cheeks and the utter gorgeousness of my self, I had one of those playback moments – you know, the ones where you hear what’s just been said, a few seconds later.
And that’s when it hit me. No, not the kerb, or a randy lamp-post. The realisation. Of course. He hadn’t said ‘Shit hot.’ He’d said ‘shit hat’.
And there it was. The sparkling moment was gone. I was back to being just another mum, on a bike, in the snow, boobs round her ankles, wearing a silly hat.
Ah, the hat. And THAT’S why people have been staring at me. That, and because I only remembered to pluck one eyebrow last week. But I don’t mind. I love my shit hot shit hat. It keeps my ears warm, cost less than a cup of coffee and allows me to blend in with any passing sheep.
I don’t care what people think: the hat stays 🙂