When I broke my toe some years ago two very good things happened. Firstly, I was given a distinction for my Masters degree – being a borderline candidate, a dramatic exam-room appearance on crutches hoiked me up into the top tier – and secondly, I discovered that life with a crutch suited me very well. Wherever I went I felt oddly protected by my extra limb. People were extra nice to me. The metal leg was so versatile: it could be a weapon, a crowd clearer, a litter spearer, an ambassador insisting on my rights. It even scared dogs who might dive for one’s ankles. Not to mention the support it gave me. What better crutch in life than a crutch?

And yes, to my shame, perhaps I did hang on to it a week longer than strictly necessary, for I found the comfort it brought me very hard to lose. Why, at a party where you knew not a soul, you could almost strike up a conversation with it in a dark corner. Having been alone for a long while, I was suddenly practically part of a couple! In lean times, you know, almost anything can be a terrific boon.

I revisited this scene in my mind at the weekend, for I have found myself a new protector in the shape of a hat with a small dotted veil.

I was browsing for some head gear to wear to the races in a large, cool department store. First of all, the Spanish lady in charge brought me a pink and cream creation made of many large and blooming silk roses, but I had to explain to her that because my face looks a bit sentimental (because my character can), I needed something a little more severe. The hat I chose was a small grey straw disc with a little waterfall of grey face-covering dotted netting. It wasn’t especially suitable for going racing, though it would have done at a funeral, but it was jaunty and stylish and smart, and it was heftier than “a substantial fascinator” – the minimum requirements of the racecourse.

As soon as the hat was on, I felt the high comfort of having a light but unarguable barrier between myself and the world. Anxious about two or three things I couldn’t speak of, the netting provided both privacy and courage. I bought it and made a small tour of the neighbourhood. Life was slightly dulled and muted in my new hat. Even the visceral – a raw carcass suspended in a butcher’s shop window – looked pleasantly rosy, almost picturesque when viewed through the lacy film. Some of the disappointments in my mind gradually came to seem more footling than wounding. Throughout my body I experienced the spread of warm numbness I normally associate with gin or foot spas.

At the races I felt more confident than I had in weeks. Oh, the mystery I seemed to sense people locating in me! I idly backed two horses that I thought looked frisky in the paddock and they both came in, one 22-1, one 33-1. “She’s a keeper!” a passing Italian prince called over to my husband. Beneath my veil I raised one shadowy brow. How everybody laughed ...

Of course, ordinary human interaction was made more difficult by my hat: kissing people, eating and drinking became complex arts, but none of these things is really simple in any case. That evening, after we got home, I had to go out again to give an interview on the top floor of a hotel, and I kept on the hat for ballast. “I’ve come straight from the races!” I lied. “Do excuse the funny get-up.”

“Not at all, not at all.” The interviewer’s questions were mighty respectful. Returning home I kept the hat on until I climbed into bed, and it was with some reluctance that I took it off at all.

Luckily, the next day I was being a godmother at a christening, so the hat could have another outing. I didn’t even need to wash my hair. Throughout the day I perfected the art of kissing through the net and drinking, holding the glass high up in my hand under the veil. The children kindly fed me snacks through the holes. I could see the whole thing was a bit mad, but there are very, very, few mad things one can do that provide comfort and give one an irreproachable appearance. To be at once crazy and correct! You could spend a lifetime perfecting that look.

In the morning, the following day, hatless at the school gates, I felt downcast. My nude head bowed and I had the dread sense of an imminent slump. I raced home, pulled on my hat and sat at my desk. Although it was slightly hard to type with little grey crosses dancing permanently before my eyes, I did feel jaunty and peaceful. Where’s the harm?

susie.boyt@ft.com
More columns at www.ft.com/boyt