Nothing fascinating about it

Feathers: Little black mess
Feathers: Little black mess
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I’m thinking the Ladies Day downpours at Royal Atsoff were surely divine intervention on the part of someone On High with a great sense of taste.

And the late Gertrude Shilling at their elbow.

Dinner: On your head be it

Dinner: On your head be it

With a bit of luck, a field of hideous headpieces were rendered to soggy, sorry uselessness and dispatched to the knacker’s yard.

Don’t get me wrong. I absolutely adore hats. Proper ones, with a crown and a brim. But I loathe the fascinator. What feather-brained fool invented it? The most un-fascinating headgear ever, at best you looked like a greater crested grebe. At worst, you were transformed into a prostitute in a spaghetti western. Name of Betsy, with a room above the saloon.

For the last few years, these pathetic excuses for hats have been plucked gleefully from department store counters by namby-pambies scared to go the whole hog with a real hat. Or ghd addicts too worried about getting hat-hair.

This summer, though, despite a growth spurt and feathers the size of a circus pony’s plumes, the fascinator is heading for extinction. Though beating it into submission is another equally ridiculous bit of frippery. Basically, you stick a huge, laden dinner plate right on your forehead and sally forth.

Is it a joke, or a way of reducing the Botox bill?