Once More With Footnotes

Since then I must have owned about ten of them, all identical to the inexpert eye. All right, I'll own up: When I was a kid I remember being impressed by John Steed of The Avengers opening a wardrobe door to reveal, dis appearing into the distance, apparently endless lines of bowler hats and furled umbrellas. That taught me something. If you're going to be serious about hats you can't have just one.
     
                  Some, after a decent airing, have been donated to charity auctions or u sed as competition prizes ("Win Terry Pratchett's Hat!") One is the proud possession of my Czech translator. One just died. It was one of the best ones — thin felt that looked like velvet, a perfect fit, and as black as the Ace of Spades. It was like wearin g a head glove. Never found another one like it. Took me a year to get it exactly as I wanted it, and two years to wear it out.
     
                  No two hats are alike. Every hat has its own character. All confirmed hat wearers know this. I've got a heavy felt stunt hat, u seful if I'm doing a school visit where half the class are probably going to end up trying it on, a quality hat for those select occasions, and some suitably rugged ones for signing tours. A black fedora or Louisiana wouldn't do for Australia, though, whe r e I prefer an Akubra "Territory", the largest hat they do short of a sombrero. If you look closely you can still see where the koala bear pissed on it.
     
                  When I became an officially famous author, the black hat became a kind of trademark. It wasn't on purp ose, but photographers liked it. "One with the hat on, please", they'd say. And you always do what the photographer wants, don't you? And so the hat — sorry, the Hat — turned up in PR photos and I was stuck with it. It became me, according to all the photogra p hs.
     
                  For that reason, people assume that I should be wearing it all the time. "Where's your hat?" is the demand when I'm signing in a shop, as if people aren't sure who this little bearded bald guy is unless the Hat confers the official personality. Reade rs want to be photographed with me at bookshop events, and that's fine and part of the whole business, but I just know that as the camera is elevated they'll give that little gasp of realisation and "with the hat, of course."
     
                  There have been a couple of foiled attempts at hat theft.
     
                  Then there was the hat-stretching. I bought a new hat for a tour last year. It turned out to be on the tight side, and I had foolishly not brought the spare hat. But a wonderful bookshop in the town of St. Neots had once bee n a gentleman's outfitters and there, on a high shelf, was a Victorian hat-stretching engine. No bookstore should be without one. They kindly racked the hat in front of the crowd while 1 signed the books. I believe that some people thought it was a way of forcing me to sign.
     
                  People ask me if I feel naked without my hat. The answer is no. I feel naked without, say, my trousers, but if you walk down the street without wearing a hat the police take very little interest at all. But, yes ... I've grown very at tached to the hat, over the years.
     
                  Aha, people say, it's like some kind of prop, right? A magic mask? You think you become a real person when you put your hat on? You are the hat, right?
     
                  And that just goes to show why people shouldn't go around saying "Aha" and getting their psychology from bad movies. No, I don't become a real person with the hat on. I become an unreal person with the hat on. There's this man who's sold 25 million books and goes on huge and gruelling signing tours and has seen the ins i de of too many hotel rooms. He's the one under the hat. It's tough under there, and sometimes the hat has to come off.
     
                  The hat's an anti-disguise, one that you remove in order to be unrecognised. It's amazing. It works beautifully. Without the hat I can join the huge fraternity of bald men with glasses, and amble around the place without people looking hard at me and saying, "You're you, aren't you? Here, could you sign this for my wife? She won't believe me when I tell her." It's not that I mind that st u ff, but sometimes a man just wants to go out to buy a tube of glue and some