I have therefore set my sights on this hat. There are many cosmic mysteries that I should like unravelled; many powers I wish to acquire. I plan to sport it in the supermarket to gauge the fastest check-out queue and to wear it in church to banish Boden bargains from my mind during the Eucharistic prayer. Behatted, I should be able to answer my children's questions about why cats don't have to eat greens and what are seven times eight. Most of all, though, I should like the hat to reveal:
Why my hair is migrating from my head to my chin.
Why, after three wash-loads in a morning, the level of the laundry basket does not go down.
Why the walk to school with the children is twice as far as the walk back without them.
Why under 16s are expert at working the handle of the biscuit cupboard three feet above their heads, but congentially unable to operate the lavatory flush.
Why the bathroom mirror reflects a middle-aged matron whenever I floss my teeth.
Why the dried food found under the sofa cushions bears no relation to food ever consumed by the family.
Why coins found under the sofa cushions are always coppers, never £1s.
Why I wait eagerly each morning for the weather forecast, then never absorb a word of it.
Why it's so much easier to love ones children when they are asleep.
If you should come upon a thinking hat in your house, what questions would you want answered?
