A hat, not A Hat

It is going to be months until I am no longer eligible for the Frankenstein's Monster's Missus look-a-like competition, so I have considered my social diary for the foreseable future, and given thought to how I will appear. It is now obvious that I need another winter hat, as my work-a-day keep-me-warm-in-winter hat has seen better days, but to answer Charles Dawson's comment on my last post, I don't need A Hat like the splendid one that Lady Bracknell commissioned for her recent attendance at Buckingham Palace.

This is deepest Dorset and, in the dark days approaching the winter solstice, the rain is filling the rivers and water meadows, as it is meant to and is likely to continue for some time, so the downpours are one consideration. Also to be considered is that outside of the conurbations, the staple of Dorset ladies outfitters is tweed, waxed cotton and leather (not the tight and shiny niche market stuff, which would frighten the horses). Summer hats are so much easier.

The County Town's hunting/shooting/fishing shop supplied this new hat which I am very pleased with. Obviously this is not me, not even thirty years ago, and the bow needed a bit of re-modelling, but on the whole it will do very nicely. Reactions have varied, from: "...very stylish dear.." to "... that's a bit posh !".
Posh is fine. Posh overcomes any negative wheelchair effects - yes, it does happen, every time I go out.
(Its not me, its not, its them.)

Now that is sorted, I have to consider what to do, how to be, indoors - adorned or unadorned, covered or uncovered, considerate of others' squeamishness, or don't give a shit.

This would cover the dot dot dash effect of the beginning-to-heal scabs (is there a more refined word ?) on my forehead but the hand signals may be mis-understood by those people behind me at the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra concert.

I have tried scarves in all possible styles but silk slips and the silk rustling with every slight movement is amplified in Meniere's noise recruitment, in fact anything near my ears is not possible and anything on the stubbled scar that is not silk is too harsh. I am such a tender little flower.

So, unadored it is then. Move over Beethoven, cue the Munster's intro.

(Editorial post script:
Instead of correcting 'unadorned' I hereby acknowledge it was a Freudian slip.)