Hat of doom

It's been a good day out with Bill, Alice and our children. After two weeks of nothing but big, important conversations about Francis' job and our future, it's a delight to swap them temporarily for inconsequential nothings as we watch neat-bottomed riders and their heroic steeds charge along the point to point course in the blazing heat.

Ah, yes, that blazing heat. My Hermes scarf doesn't cut quite such a dash now when teamed with a slightly too small child's sunhat in vivid pink, with daisies sprinkled liberally round its brim. It would - does - look sweet upon the head of a toddler, but rather less so as a topping for the chemically enhanced locks of a mature woman.

And hubris isn't, of course, far away. As the day goes on, the crowd starts to lose its anonymity and we are soon on nodding terms with people who stand out by virtue, say, of their dogs. One family, for example, has a dalmation instead of the ubiquitous black labrador. But then I hear one woman say, "I recognise that lady with the hat. She's quite distinctive." There's a muffled titter from the group she's with. I look round to see which lady they have in mind and realise that the only one wearing a hat is, of course, me.

I remove it, feeling horribly self-conscious. Later, a rider passes, leading two horses. "I could swear I recognised that women," I imagine one saying to the other, "but I think she's ditched the hat."