Where did you get that hat?

I am picking Phoebe up from school and it is a hot day, even by Athens standards. As we will have to be out in the sun for close to an hour before collecting Emily, I have hats with me. I hand her one.

"Daddy, I don't like that hat. It looks girlish."

"What? No, it isn't girlish at all. It's just a white hat. Here, put it on."

"It's not just white. Look, there's some pink as well." She points to the gingham trim around the peak.

"Oh, that's not really pink darling, that's red and white."

"Mmmm. And what does it say on the front?" she asks, pointing to a glittery red word in swirly cursive letters.

"Um, 'Lovely', I say."

"That's girlish. And what are those little red round things."

"Cherries."

"They're girlish. I'm not wearing it."

"Darling, I'm sorry but I'm going to have to put my foot down here. It's very, very hot today and because we're outside, you're going to have to wear a hat. Look, I'm wearing a hat. This is my hat and I'm wearing it. This is your hat, so please put it on. I promise you, it isn't girlish!"

"You wear it then, and I'll have yours."

"What? Don't be silly. My hat will look enormous on you and there's no way my head will fit into a hat designed for a [I check the label] girl, I mean, uh, a child aged six to eight."

"Try it."

"What?"

"Try it on."

"Oh, come on, darling, now you're just being silly."

"Try it."

Just to humour her, I agree to try it on, making it very plain that if it doesn't fit then she'll have no choice but to - DAMN! Damn my six-to-eight-year-old-girl-sized head! As Phoebe runs off wearing my Moscow 2008 Champions League Final hat I reflect that if only I had been quick-thinking enough to tell her that the word on the front said "Zombie" instead of "Lovely" she would probably have agreed to waer it without a murmur...