I have hideously bad luck when it comes to winter clothing.

Last December I lost my favouritest fingerless gloves. Oh they were so beautiful. But alas, lost in an abandoned hospital that we were exploring ever-so-slightly-illegally, so little chance of rediscovery.

I replaced them with a pair of gorgeous fleece-lined hand-knitted mittens from Winchester Christmas Market. I can't even explain how toasty they were; warming not only my hands on bitterly cold days, but also warming my heart in the dark, depressing winter gloom. They fell foul of a trip to Wittering in February, gone forever.

My favourite black scarf only survived until March, when it was left behind on a trip with uni.



This morning I bought a hat.

Not only was it the loveliest navy of them all, but it was a bargain, and a perfect fit. A woollen wonder, topped with the fluffiest bobble known to mankind.
On the way home, it fell out of my bag on the bus. Still with its tags on, lost in its prime.

Oh the things we would have done together.

Farewell, Hat That Was So Nearly Mine.