Many hats

the multiple hats of Mr Wolf, watercolour and ink, personal portfolio

Who are we? Which of the many facets of the I we hold in our mind’s eye is the real one, and which are the masks, the veneers or the outdated versions we’re unable to shake off? Who are we and who do we want to be?

This question has popped up repeatedly over the last week. Mining the past through my determined sifting of over 14,000 digital images has been…well, it’s been quite the trip. I’m trying to find a series of photographs that will encapsulate a tiny part of my about-to-be-married daughter’s life. And put them together in some coherent form so that I can talk fluently and without bursting into tears when it’s my turn to speak at her wedding.

Being a children’s illustrator and writer and a veteran of the festival and library event circuit ought to make this kind of public speaking easier, right?

Oh, wrong. WRONG, WRONG, WRONG.

And the past may be another country, but right now, looking at the innocent territory of our previous lives through the smoke-obscured lens of our current burning world is deeply disconcerting. Look how far we’ve come, my darlings. The life so short, the art so long to learn. But even if I'd known then what I know now, what could I have done? Who would I have been? Which hat, for heaven’s sake?

Or, to return to my illustration of Mr Wolf and his many hats, which wolf would I choose to feed?¹ Back then, I was stoking the mother/artist/writer version. Would anything have been gained by feeding the mother/activist/warrior one and ditching the drawing board and pen?

charcoal and ink

So, as of summer 2026, here are my hats. The space cadet is one I’m wearing a lot as I scour the internet for hopeful planetary arrangements. This, to be fair, is a hat I’ve worn for most of my life. Yes, I own and fly that flag. I cast my own birth chart (back in 1977 when such things weren’t as in vogue as they are now) so I look at the signs for my Sun sign, Rising sign and occasionally, my Moon. Man. Peace out. Yeah, go on, judge me.

All I can say is that it’s a very interesting time, astrologically speaking.

Which brings me, unsurprisingly to my next hat:

Yup. That’s the tin hat. Well, to be accurate, it’s the cast iron and enamel aged Le Creuset hat but still… It’s the hat of the ironic Doomsday prepper who is mercilessly teased by those of a less P-doomish bent, but who has a month’s supply of beans and toilet paper just in case. Clearly, the future is going to be…explosive, but we’ll have the technology to keep our bums clean. Onwards!

This is the organic hat of the Child of Nature. At one with the birds and bees, but death on toast to moths who even think about a little snackeroonie on my hand knits. What will bee, will bee. Planet would thrive in our absence tbh, but for now, let us live in harmony with all living things. Well, most living things except for Embracing the Now, in the knowledge that we have overshot, blown it and will soon be toast. But beautiful toast. Ahhhhhhh.

No. Acta non verba. Man the barricades, comrades. Stand up for the workers. Burn the system down. Well, maybe not right now while the wildfire risk is so high, but perhaps hose the System down? Well, possibly not that either when there’s a hosepipe ban. Fight the Power? Bulldoze the data centres? Defund the billionaires and their toxic websites? No, I didn’t buy my balaclava from Amazon. I knitted it myself, from yarn recycled from loft insulation. Itchy as fuck actually…

Hats, schmats. I have no idea either.

I’m barely able to hold onto a single thought before it fragments, and is borne away on the hot wind in a thousand wispy strands. I’m trying very hard to avoid my digital tether, but it’s my only contact with the world of work, so I have to engage with it on a daily basis. When I do open the damn thing, it has a page of hysterical newsfeed/clickbait which I try to get past without reading but…pffff, the reading habit has its downsides too. So there’s that. I read constantly (currently Sarah Wilson’s I Eat the Stars) but nothing sticks. I’m trying to get enough sleep, but I wake up too early. I’m trying to get Out There and exercise but my boring, boring, boring hip limits what I can do.

However, last night we did climb a little local hill to fill our eyes with the county in full summer.

And I have work ahead! YAY! A new book, featuring Dr Purr and Mr Wolf, so I’m beyond thrilled about that. So exciting to grab my rucksack and head for my invented village of Hushnow. Hushnow in winter. What’s not to like? I can’t tell you how soothing it is as I melt here in my summer-baked studio, to consider Hushnow under deep snow, to imagine how chilly poor Mr Wolf feels as he wades home, clutching his cake and his harmonica.

Oh god. Snow. The absolute bliss of it. Which is what I say in summer.

In winter, I say - oh god. Sunshine. The absolute bliss of it.

I wrote a book about precisely this kind of inconsistency. I think I might dig it out and show you next week. Till then - may you find shade and coolness wherever you are.

Watercolour and ink sample a/w for Bloomsbury

1. From the story of the two wolves. Allegedly a Cherokee legend wherein a young warrior consults with a tribal Elder regarding the warring wolves within himself ( good wolf versus bad wolf) Which wolf will win, asks the younger man. Whichever one you feed, replies the Elder.