‘There is no magic to wearing a hat.’
It was a cold day, with grey skies and the first drops of rain. I stood at the bus stop, waiting for the 137, when someone said, ‘Great hat.’
The hat was an Akubra. It fits my head snugly and has a broad rim that some people might call a Stetson. This particular hat is thirty-three years old. My parents brought it back in 1991 after they visited my sister, who lived on a sheep farm in the Australian outback with her husband and three children.
I kept it on a shelf until 2016 when I decided to stop being embarrassed and start wearing it. Once I started wearing the hat, I learnt an important lesson about life. No one in London pays any malicious attention to unusual hats.
I should add that I have always worn hats. Hat wearers recognise fellow hat wearers. We are a tribe. Back at school, I wore a flat cap. Then, I inherited some hats from my uncle. These were made by Herbert Johnson and lasted several years. Then I moved on to black trilbys made at Bates in Jermyn Street. So, hats were always part of my wardrobe.
Wearing the Akubra is like writing posts on a blog. I am not making a fool of myself, and only one or two readers will notice me. They will only pause because they will see something that interests them.
So, the hat has morphed into a metaphor. I had learnt that those who liked the hat might pause, and those who aren’t bothered, would just pass on.
I think this is a common fear: that our ideas are unformed and that somehow, those who do publish have mature opinions about the world. I don’t think there is any way to get away from this fear. But reflecting on this, I realised that if I could wear an Akubra in London, I could also ‘wear my hat’ on my blog.
That’s when I decided on the hat logo with the crossed pen and pencil, as this is who I chose to be.
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