The perfect hat

I’m not attached to objects or I want to believe that I’m not attached to objects until I lose them and realise that I miss them very much. 

I still miss my yellow woolly hat which wasn’t even mine at first. I’d never had a woolly hat until I moved to London and was very reluctant to own one. I kept borrowing my friend Sam’s. His mum knitted it and it was just perfect. The perfect size – not too small so you don’t look like you are wearing a sock, not too big so it doesn’t fall on your nose yet big enough to pull it over your eyes and have a quick nap on the train or wear it sideways like a beret. The perfect yellow – not too bright, not too pale, more like gold without the glittery side. Eventually Sam gave it to me, in exchange for a red ski jacket that I’d bought on a whim at Camden market.

I almost lost my perfect hat many times. I left it in pubs all around London, running back after realising my head was cold as I was walking home, hoping that no one would take it. I remember countless mornings, panicking when I couldn’t find it, and the sense of relief seeing it on my desk when I walked into the office.

My luck changed last year on my way to work, did I drop it on the train, in the street, I will never know, it was gone. I have since adopted C’s bright red hat. Sam promised to ask his mum to knit me another perfect yellow one.