Hats

I find myself apologising in advance for having almost next to nothing interesting to say about hats! I used to wear the obligatory school cap (purple and black) back in the day, and then no further head gear until my daughters bought me a fedora for a significant birthday, to cover up the first signs of a bald patch. Even that I scarcely wear nowadays, though I keep it (gathering dust) for sentimental reasons. 

Currently anything I put on my head is entirely football related: a faded tangerine baseball cap bearing the legend 'We are Premier League '  (fond memories), for sunny days on the terraces or the beach, and a similarly coloured 'Seasiders' beanie for wintry Saturday afternoons spent supporting the team.

The only other observation I feel qualified to make about hats is that ladies seem to wear extravagantly eye-catching ones for special occasions like weddings and days at the races. So I went online, on a mission to find images of 'extravagantly eye-catching hats', and this old Edwardian photograph below was one of the more arresting. I have no idea of its provenance, but on the tenuous basis that a picture is worth a thousand words, I hope it will stand in lieu of everything I don't have to say on the subject. It's certainly a splendid hat. 😉

In what posture...

Having recently re-read James Joyce's 'Ulysses ',  I could easily imagine the photograph to be a portrait of Molly Bloom. She was (fictively) born in Gibraltar in 1870, the daughter of Major Tweedy, an Irish military officer, and one Lunita Laredo, a Spanish Gibraltarian. Molly was married at eighteen (less than happily) to Leopold Bloom, could sing opera, and had a daughter Milly, who left home aged fifteen to study photography, but unlike her classical counterpart (Penelope), she had no intention of remaining faithful to her husband.

Inspired (if that's the right word) by the final 'chapter', of 'Ulysses ' (known generally as Molly's Soliloquy), I've used the tenor of those sixty-odd pages of bedroom ruminations to create a mood-piece precis of sorts in this seasonal acrostic monologue poem. You're welcome (though it's not meant to save you the effort or pleasure of reading the original). 

Molly's Bedsprung Longing (Bloom In May)

Breast heaving with the thought of it, and these

Lungs on me capable of raising the roof,  feeling

Oysterous though there's no Roger in the month.

O the pity, the waste and the want of it.  Mercies 

Molly, what are you like?  No better than you are

Is what. Unpicked and wicked for a frisking with

No thought beyond giving or taking of pleasure. 

Midnight musings in this frusty marriage bed as

A shaft of May's moon pierces the Dublin gloom.

Yes, you're still young,  vital and shining for love.

As a musical bonus, since I feel I've short-changed you somewhat, if you have ten minutes to spare you might like to give this sublimely rolling blues workout from Quicksilver Messenger Service a listen. I choose it for no better or worse reason than its appropriate title: The Hat

Thanks for reading, S ;-)