Pictured is what all the fuss has been about. And as you can see – it’s a hat (albeit a very stylish, jaunty fashion accessory).

But from the attention it’s garnered this week, you’d have thought I’d taken to wearing pants over my head instead.

Still, the support and encouragement I’ve received from friends and colleagues over this recent choice of attire has been... well, insulting (they, you see, have been the ones making a mountain out of a molehill).

“Trying to hide the bald spot eh?”, “It’s Toad of Toad Hall” and “Fancy dress day is it?” have been among some of the more puerile examples chuckled out from their canon of sartorial witticisms.

Because clearly, wearing a hat that isn’t related to baseball is a sin.

Those far superior to me in matters of chic, pay no attention to fashion; instead they wile away weekends in places like Gap and Fat Face in an effort to prove that dress only matters when it looks like you haven’t.

Which is why they look like ageing men (which they all are) trying desperately to look like they aren’t.

And if there is anything more creepy than a fifty-something body in T-shirt and trainers, smirking with ‘attitude’, hair gel and an earring, then I’ve yet to see it.

Indeed, it seems now to be a rule that the older a man gets, the more vital it is he show off his chicken wing arms, spindly legs and white-haired chest.

But I just can’t embrace that leather-lycee look. No sirree! When I hit the Five-Oh (and that’s next year, to be precise) I’ll look like I’m dressing for chemical war. Or at least February.

On the other hand, the reception my hat has been accorded by total strangers in this city is nothing short of inspirational.

Whether walking down Cowley Road, taking the bus out to Summertown, or idling in Port Meadow, it’s been the same story every time – “Whoa, love the hat!”, “Where can I get one?” and “Suits you, sir!”

Such support has proved invaluable in helping to heal the scars so carelessly inflicted by those who – until last week – I once cared about.

But it proves what I have always believed: that life as a style icon can be lonely.

Is that big-headed of me to make such a claim?

You bet. But the hat at least helps keep it under wraps!