First time a rabbit came out of a hat? 1814. Louis Comte, French court entertainer. Mad as a hatter (although his chapeau was probably not made with mercury, so he probably couldn’t blame the fumes). Me, I prefer a hat with a purpose. A stylish topper is all very well, but the main purpose of the thing is to keep the rain / sun / snow / sleet off yer ‘ead. N’est pas?
That’s what you’d think. Apparently, the main purpose of my hats is to act as repositories for socks. Or mugs. Or small wooden mice. Or wee, cloth-bound versions of Sir Walter Scott’s Lady of the Lake. Or any number of objects other than my head. I’ve pulled all of said items out of one hat or another in the last couple of days, in an attempt to find The Hat.
It’s been raining, see? So I need The Hat. The one that keeps the rain off completely, and doesn’t let drips go down the back of your neck no matter what you’re doing. Can’t find it anywhere. By the time I find it, it will have stopped raining. Coco Chanel liked hats. I bet she didn’t have this trouble quand il pleuvait.
Imperfect. That’s what that was. That’s what this is. An imperfect situation. No hat. Every hat except The Hat. Et il pleut comme les vaches qui pissent.
I think the mercury’s taking effect.
And I’m going to get wet.