The lovely people at Summersdale have given us a cheque. A cheque for our first ever book. So I thought I’d spend my portion of it on something to mark the occasion. Something that would feel, in a modest way, slightly momentous. A fountain pen maybe, a shining life marker of some sort, or maybe just a meaningful keepsake. I got this …

Locke’s The Hatter has been milliner of choice to London’s gentry since 1679. On a shelf above the till rest the moulds they once used to fashion headgear from previous client, one Horatio Nelson. It’s an auspicious place, and being someone whose noggin is too large for standard XL hats, it’s a shop I’ve always presumed would be one of the few equal to my cranial peculiarities.

In I went, on went the largest hat they make and … oh balls.

Not even the largest hat in a hat shop rumoured to have made hats for John Merrick fitted me.

A kindly shop assistant walked up, keen to swap my look of crushed disbelief for a swift sale.

‘Does that one not quite fit sir?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Would you like me to stretch it for you on the block?’

The block? This sounded like a torture device. Would I hear the hat scream as it was coerced into shape?

Not having time to consult with the headwear protection league I opted for ‘yes’. Within seconds she was back, and I tried on the first hat in my adult life that actually fits me. It makes me look like an extra from Bugsy Malone, but it fits. And after twenty years of hats that have made me feel like I’m wearing a clamp, comfort alone is enough. Thank you Miss Locke, and God bless your magic block.