The difference between a man and a woman re hats.
Posted: Sat Mar 21, 2009 3:12 pm
I was reading through a collection of stories by the late Canadian newsman and writer Greg Clark and came across this. Can't think of a better place to share it.
LJ
Gotcha
I saw this hat, a lady's hat, come bounding and bouncing across the icy intersection.
From under the brim of my hat, with my head bent against the bitter gale, I glimpsed it coming. I saw five or six people, both men and women, from among the downtown throng of the intersection, make a grab for it as it sailed, bounced, curved on the wind.
I fact, I saw one man - and this is important to the record - I saw one man try to stamp on it as it whirled past his feet.
But the wild January wind picked it up just in time, and it rose a yard in the air and came straight for me.
It was a pretty hat, roughly about the size of a pie plate. Against the dirty background of King and Yonge streets, with its leaden ice-coated pavement and the bleak, tall walls of the banks, their stone lashed with sleet, the hat was a pretty thing.
It was pink. It had soft pink feathers on it, though I did not perceive its delicacy at the moment.
It had little sequins sewn here and there amid the soft pink feathers.
You see the situation. The grey January day. The wild midday gale, whirling, lashing the intersection. All those people, heads down, pushing both ways across the intersection. And this lady's hat coming out of nowhere, whirling, evading, side-slipping, banking amid all the perils of street car, bus, automobile and pedestrian.
Now I must interrupt the programme for a moment to explain to you that I am a gentleman, so to speak, of the old school. I carry a stick. What is more, I am an old soldier, trained for years to act, and to act with instant decision. Furthermore, I am a sportsman, familiar with the strike of the muskellunge, with the sudden explosion of the partridge from amid the autumn leaves, and with the paralyzing bound of the buck deer in the tag alders. All these things, over the years, enter into a man's very nature.
Therefore, I throw myself on the mercy of my readers when I relate just how I reacted to the situation when I saw those five or six people making wild grabs at the hat, when I saw that man make a stamp at it with his foot.
It lifted a yard in the air and came straight at me.
As it neared, it swerved to my right side.
With one swift stroke, I swiped it down with my walking stick.
"Gotcha!" I cried.
And there, in the middle of the intersection, on that grey leaden dirty ice, all wrecked and crumpled like a tender bird, lay the lady's beautiful pink hat.
"Well played, sah!" cried an Englishman in the uniform of a commissionaire, and passed smartly on.
But as I stood there, looking down in horror at the little pink ruin on the cruel pavement, others did not pass on. They paused and looked with me.
"Holy smoke!" said one.
"Wow!" said another.
Two office girls, hunched in their collars, let out little screams.
And the lady who owned the hat - oh, about thirty, and clutching to her throat a smart short mink coat, her hair flying - rushed into the midst of us and snatched the poor pink wreckage to her bosom.
"You HIT it!" she cried.
"Madam, I..."
"With your STICK!" she wept. "I saw you hit it."
"Lady, it was going to be run over by a car, by a ..."
"You STRUCK it!" she repeated, horror in her eyes, her voice.
"I saw him, too," accused one of the girls.
"It was deliberate," announced a fat man with a red nose.
The lights changed, and the intersection became loud with car horns. We hastily moved, and though I had been going in the other direction, I chivalrously followed the lady with the pink remains. So did several others. We formed a cluster on the crowded sidewalk in the wind.
"My dear young lady," I said, "come along. I'll buy you a new one."
"You couldn't, you!" she cried, and her eyes were wet.
"Aw, now," I protested. "After all, all I was trying to do was capture it, intercept it..."
"You HIT it!" she said, unbelief still in her voice, "With your stick!"
And she fondled the little smudged bundle of pink with the sequins in it. Strange, the love of a woman for a hat.
One of the girls moved and stood beside her.
"Take him up!" she declared loudly. "Make him buy you a new one."
"He couldn't," said the young woman. "It was made specially. I'm on my way to a luncheon at the hotel."
She ran her hand distractedly through her hair, which was a bit wind-tossed.
"You'll have to have a hat," said the girl.
We were being bunted by the crowd on the corner. "After all," I announced, "I saw another man try to STAMP on it!"
"Phooo!" said the girl beside the young lady, and they moved back out of the wind into the shelter of a bank corner.
I glanced about. The fat man was gone. Nobody was paying any attention. I decided to drop the whole matter.
Out to the curb I stepped. The wind made a grab. My hat blew off. On its edge, it spun out into the traffic.
A car squashed it.
"Goody!" came a shrill cry from the corner of the bank.
I think it was that girl, that other one, the interloper.
I did not pick up my hat. I did not even glance down at it.
I went straight across and into the hat shop and bought a new one.
That's the difference between a man and a woman re hats.
LJ
Gotcha
I saw this hat, a lady's hat, come bounding and bouncing across the icy intersection.
From under the brim of my hat, with my head bent against the bitter gale, I glimpsed it coming. I saw five or six people, both men and women, from among the downtown throng of the intersection, make a grab for it as it sailed, bounced, curved on the wind.
I fact, I saw one man - and this is important to the record - I saw one man try to stamp on it as it whirled past his feet.
But the wild January wind picked it up just in time, and it rose a yard in the air and came straight for me.
It was a pretty hat, roughly about the size of a pie plate. Against the dirty background of King and Yonge streets, with its leaden ice-coated pavement and the bleak, tall walls of the banks, their stone lashed with sleet, the hat was a pretty thing.
It was pink. It had soft pink feathers on it, though I did not perceive its delicacy at the moment.
It had little sequins sewn here and there amid the soft pink feathers.
You see the situation. The grey January day. The wild midday gale, whirling, lashing the intersection. All those people, heads down, pushing both ways across the intersection. And this lady's hat coming out of nowhere, whirling, evading, side-slipping, banking amid all the perils of street car, bus, automobile and pedestrian.
Now I must interrupt the programme for a moment to explain to you that I am a gentleman, so to speak, of the old school. I carry a stick. What is more, I am an old soldier, trained for years to act, and to act with instant decision. Furthermore, I am a sportsman, familiar with the strike of the muskellunge, with the sudden explosion of the partridge from amid the autumn leaves, and with the paralyzing bound of the buck deer in the tag alders. All these things, over the years, enter into a man's very nature.
Therefore, I throw myself on the mercy of my readers when I relate just how I reacted to the situation when I saw those five or six people making wild grabs at the hat, when I saw that man make a stamp at it with his foot.
It lifted a yard in the air and came straight at me.
As it neared, it swerved to my right side.
With one swift stroke, I swiped it down with my walking stick.
"Gotcha!" I cried.
And there, in the middle of the intersection, on that grey leaden dirty ice, all wrecked and crumpled like a tender bird, lay the lady's beautiful pink hat.
"Well played, sah!" cried an Englishman in the uniform of a commissionaire, and passed smartly on.
But as I stood there, looking down in horror at the little pink ruin on the cruel pavement, others did not pass on. They paused and looked with me.
"Holy smoke!" said one.
"Wow!" said another.
Two office girls, hunched in their collars, let out little screams.
And the lady who owned the hat - oh, about thirty, and clutching to her throat a smart short mink coat, her hair flying - rushed into the midst of us and snatched the poor pink wreckage to her bosom.
"You HIT it!" she cried.
"Madam, I..."
"With your STICK!" she wept. "I saw you hit it."
"Lady, it was going to be run over by a car, by a ..."
"You STRUCK it!" she repeated, horror in her eyes, her voice.
"I saw him, too," accused one of the girls.
"It was deliberate," announced a fat man with a red nose.
The lights changed, and the intersection became loud with car horns. We hastily moved, and though I had been going in the other direction, I chivalrously followed the lady with the pink remains. So did several others. We formed a cluster on the crowded sidewalk in the wind.
"My dear young lady," I said, "come along. I'll buy you a new one."
"You couldn't, you!" she cried, and her eyes were wet.
"Aw, now," I protested. "After all, all I was trying to do was capture it, intercept it..."
"You HIT it!" she said, unbelief still in her voice, "With your stick!"
And she fondled the little smudged bundle of pink with the sequins in it. Strange, the love of a woman for a hat.
One of the girls moved and stood beside her.
"Take him up!" she declared loudly. "Make him buy you a new one."
"He couldn't," said the young woman. "It was made specially. I'm on my way to a luncheon at the hotel."
She ran her hand distractedly through her hair, which was a bit wind-tossed.
"You'll have to have a hat," said the girl.
We were being bunted by the crowd on the corner. "After all," I announced, "I saw another man try to STAMP on it!"
"Phooo!" said the girl beside the young lady, and they moved back out of the wind into the shelter of a bank corner.
I glanced about. The fat man was gone. Nobody was paying any attention. I decided to drop the whole matter.
Out to the curb I stepped. The wind made a grab. My hat blew off. On its edge, it spun out into the traffic.
A car squashed it.
"Goody!" came a shrill cry from the corner of the bank.
I think it was that girl, that other one, the interloper.
I did not pick up my hat. I did not even glance down at it.
I went straight across and into the hat shop and bought a new one.
That's the difference between a man and a woman re hats.