Headwear at the hardware, and other stories

OUT OF MY HEAD The hat was exceptional: a grey felt fedora with a tribal-beading headband. From its lived-in condition, the elderly wearer obviously adored his crown, and as a devotee of fine headwear myself, I could empathise.

This was the second sighting of the ‘‘fed’’, and in the same place – the local hardware store. On the first occasion I couldn’t get close enough for a decent gawk. This time it was in my face. Literally. I was standing behind the sartorial superannuitant and his wife in the queue for the checkouts.

‘‘That is a beauty,’’ I said by way of introduction, flicking my eyes upwards. ‘‘It must have a story. Where did you get it?’’

‘‘South Africa,’’ he said, preening. ‘‘Twenty years ago.’’

His wife leapt in. ‘‘We’re not South African,’’ she added. ‘‘It was a holiday.’’

English accents had already disclosed their provenance.

‘‘I had two of them,’’ the husband continued, his voice cracking. ‘‘I lost one.’’ I presumed he meant the hat, and understood his grief. Perfection is a rare bird. If you find it, you want back-up insurance.

I gushed about the lifetime guarantee on my beloved Tilley hat. He smiled politely, in a sort of ‘‘Get-a-life’’ way.

His wife had spotted an available checkout and gave him a hurry-up.

‘‘Relax, Darling,’’ he said. ‘‘That couple are before us.’’

The English have an innate respect for queue decorum – born of long practice. They even acknowledge rebels who don’t join the agreed line, preferring to linger on the outskirts.

‘‘How long have you been married?’’ I asked his wife. ‘‘Oh, um 52 years, it must be.’’

‘‘Wow, half a century, and he still calls you ‘Darling’.’’

‘‘Amongst other things,’’ she said with a twinkle.

They held hands as they shuffled forward to part with their money.

Back out in the street, my own hands fondled caravan plumbing fixtures – love takes many forms. The pharmacy was nearby so I steered left to redeem a prescription for grunty painkillers.

In one of those awkward moments of pedestrian intimacy, I found myself striding shoulder-toshoulder with a man who looked like he was sleeping rough.

I sped up, but he must have had the same thought because we stayed in formation. It became embarrassing – not least because I was now in top gear and he had an artificial leg, a crutch, a bandaged head and an arm in a sling.

Dash it all, only one thing for it. Dialogue must be entered into. ‘‘You’ve been in the wars,’’ I said, never stuck for a cliche´. ‘‘Accident?’’ ‘‘Nah, I had a stroke.’’ Uncharitably, I assumed the stroke happened at the top of a 100m cliff. But then, my bent spine and wobbly gait courtesy of stuffed knees did not put me in a strong position to judge.

His rags were mirrored in my own work clothes, which have not been washed in some time – why bother when I will finish this caravan project within a week and bin them. We also had chin stubble in common – hobo on his part; hipster on mine.

An onlooker might take us for siblings. So much for the career path.

‘‘I’m waiting to get one of those new microchip implants,’’ my bro said, pointing to his swathed head. ‘‘Then I can download porn straight into my brain.’’

His mischievous cackle faded as we veered off to our separate destinations.

The painkillers had been refused two weeks ago. My GP’s offer to refer me for knee replacement was too scary, not to mention expensive if I wanted surgery within a decade.

I said I’d keep a lookout for a couple of second-hand titanium ball-joints down at the recycling, so he wrote out a chit for a threemonth supply of happy pills to tide me over – three times stronger than you can buy over the counter.

The pharmacy refused to release the drugs in one go.

‘‘Sorry about that. We can’t risk people stockpiling them ...’’ the young lass of a pharmacist said darkly.

‘‘Was there three dots at the end of that sentence?’’ I asked.

‘‘Yes. I’m leaving you to flesh out the scenario in your imagination because it’s quite dark.’’

‘‘But I amstockpiling them,’’ I replied. ‘‘Bugger the arthritic knees – a scary clown threatens to rule the world, with a nuclear arsenal at his short fingertips.’’

‘‘I thought this was for arthritis, not psychosis,’’ said the chemist.

‘‘I’m not mad. The US election is just weeks away. Voltaren won’t cut it – slip me four years’ worth of morphine.’’ ‘‘I hear you,’’ she nodded. ‘‘How about a little milk of human kindness then?’’

‘‘Not without a chit,’’ she replied, doling out a pitiful few tablets. ‘‘You’ll find milk of magnesia on the shelf there. Meanwhile, give me a Hillary.’’

‘‘Hopefully. Fingers crossed, eh.’’

‘‘No, the local Hillary – a $5 note. Dispensing charge.’’

‘‘What! Are you gift-wrapping the tablets individually?’’

I was in a funk when I returned home. ‘‘Get all your stuff?’’ my sister asked. ‘‘Yeah.’’ ‘‘How was town?’’ ‘‘Same-old. Nothing much happens in this place.’’

Footnote: Rest in peace Helen Kelly, champion of the downtrodden and another victim of 2016’s atrocious cull. Before she became ill, she had planned to run for Parliament, so odds are we’ve also lost one of our best Prime Ministers.