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 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. đŸ˜‰

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 has no intention of remaining faithful to her roving husband.
Inspired (if that's the right word) by the final 'chapter', of 'Ulysses ' (known generally as Molly's Soliloquy), I've taken the tenor of those sixty-odd pages of ruminations in creating a precis of sorts in this seasonal acrostic monolog poem. You're welcome. 
Bloom In May (Molly's Longing)Breast heaving with the thought of it, and theseLungs on me capable of raising the roof,  feelingOysterous 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 withNo thought beyond giving or taking of pleasure. 
Midnight musings in this frusty marriage bed asA 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 ;-) Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook