Forgive me in advance if I make no sense this morning – it is morning, isn’t it? – but I was up at 2 a.m. to watch the Royal Wedding. No one made me, I wanted to. I became a bit of an anglophile two decades ago when I lived in the UK during my Air Force husband’s tour of duty there. One of our sons was born just outside Oxford. I’ve a bunch of fruity dinner plates from Stoke-on-Trent I use every chance I get. And I keep a British pound in my dress-up purse just because it never left that purse when we moved away when the three-year-tour was up.
I loved the wedding. I did. I loved the trees in the Abbey, Kate’s dress, the heavenly tones of the choir, the Archbishop’s groomed and tamed eyebrows, the lovely reading of Romans 12, the stirring message by the Bishop Richard Chartres, and of course, the hats.
Oh, the hats.
As I lounged in my pjs in the dark, sipping tea and eating an English muffin, I wondered what was it about those audacious hats that so intrigued me. I figured it out sometime around 3:30 a.m. They are characters in a story. They want to tell a story. From the tops of their prim and proper British heads, they are shouting a story. Everything else about this day’s activities in London were all pompy and circumstancy – even the public’s dignified and polite march down the mall to Buckingham Palace – but the hats trumpeted their audacious audacity. Beautiful incongruence. I do believe I shall write a children’s book – dibs, everyone – about British wedding hats that talk. I mean, really, what do you think Princess Beatrice’s hat would say if given lips to speak?? I shall get to work straightaway.
In the meantime, I so would like your opinion on your favorite hat from this gallery of hopefuls. Tell me, which is favorite. And why?
And hey, while you’re at it, suggest a name for it. . .
There’s a good lass and lad. . .