The world from my window

After our first foray into  Bridport Hat Festival , at which Mr Grigg and I rather boringly wore our trusty Panamas purchased from a little shop in the delightful small town of Salento, high in the Colombian Andes, it's now time to put on our thinking caps. In 2019, we need a mass entry from Lush Places that really captures the spirit of our lively little community. We've managed to miss Bridport's wonderful celebration of all things hats ever since it began nine years ago. But next year, we'll delay our holiday not only for the Melplash Show (my favourite day of the West Dorset year) but also the hat festival. On Saturday, we ventured into my kind of town, found a place to park and wandered up the street. Everyone, but everyone, was wearing hats. Even the dogs. There were market stall holders in hats. Siblings in hats. Friends in hats. If you weren't wearing a hat, you stood out like a naked, sore thumb. There were...

As the mists swirl around this village like something out of The Land That Time Forgot, the hall is ready to open its doors for the annual flower show. Last year, I had the honour of opening this event, much to the dismay of my oldest sister, a primary school deputy head in a neighbouring county. So far, the extent of her duties in the village in which she has lived for 35 years has been to judge a children's art class. I am sure she did admirably. However, she has not yet forgiven me for usurping her. 'I'm the queen,' she hissed. 'And I can't believe you wore a hat.' Given the opportunity, I will wear a hat every time. I am toying between hats for Number One Daughter's wedding. I am reluctant to wear the huge pink panama from Snooks the hatters for fear of obscuring the view of the guests behind me. 'But you're the bride's mother,' Mrs Bancroft sagely says. 'You can wear what ever hat you like.' So I'm thinking about it. Hat...