As the weather is shifting, I thought of my old tuque. My beloved wanted to know whether we could get a new one, just in case. It happened to be in Zagreb, and so I fetched it from the closet. She wanted to know its size, maker, and the like. As it turned out, nothing was sewn into the simple, woolen hat. Black and sock-like, it had no number. Woven without any frills, it had no washing instructions. It had no insignia of the maker, either. Absolutely nothing. I was delighted. I must have gotten it in the States at least thirty years ago, when no-one yet thought of all the crap that now goes with every piece of clothing. Even better, the tuque is still in perfect shape, and it is likely to serve me well many more years. A woolen hat I would get today would have all sorts of things sewn into it, but it would not last even a few years. Not a chance. My old tuque is a relic of times long forgotten. And so am I, I am happy to add with quite some relish.