We once shared a lift at the Barbican Arts Centre, in London, with a magnificent lady resplendent in an extravagant hat more suited to Ladies Day at Ascot. A drunken Frenchman of another party, but also on board the lift, was heard to remark to his entourage, “Quelle Chapeau?” perhaps intending to insult the lady and her hat, and assuming that she could not translate his jibe.
With her head held high like a prize model for a bond street milliner, the elegant lady wore it well, and that is of course the very point of a hat.
However this set of pictures features an old cloth cap that I have worn with as much style and elegance that I can muster.
Yes, I can confirm that I have been compared to Che Gevara (when worn backwards), or a coal miner down’t pit (when worn in the conventual style to which it was intended), however I have also received admiring glances and feel able to rise above the jealous jibes.
During these winter months Mrs Monk has been inclined to adopt my utilitarian menswear, including my cap and my thick man’s coat, my boots, and even my new gloves, (her birthday present to me that she adopted as soon as the present cold spell took hold) This week of the coldest fortnight in our long history, she has been seen about town abusing my menswear like a Coal Miners Daughter, as bold as brass, without a hint of lipstick lesbianism, that I have heard so much about.
The Monks have been known to adopt party games adopting a variety of hats at our disposal. We are happy to publish a number of pictures that feature this same cloth cap and other cloth caps that are featured here and on the Monkfry
Photostream, and vaguely tell the story of the hat, and the cap, the titfer, the tiara, the helmet, and the Nobel crown.
10 January 2010