‘Hmm…have you seen an incredibly tall, stovepipe hat?’ he asks, peering at me, his face coming much closer to mine than it has in years.
‘No, no, no!’ I giggle, delighted that we are playing this game.
‘Hmm…perhaps I left it in your ear. Let me have a look.’
I dive under the covers, grinning in the dark recess among the pillows.
‘Ah, this might be it!’ He grabs my big toe through the blankets. ‘How did it ever get stuck in a place like that?’
I kick my foot free only to tangle my legs in the sheets.
‘No hat! No hat, here!’ I shout through the the layers of sheets, comforter, and afghan.
‘Very well then, thank you very much. If you happen to stumble upon, as I say, an incredibly tall, stovepipe hat, please return it to me, Abraham Z Lincoln.’
And he walks out of the room, dragging all the bedding behind him, looking more like a king in his robes than the 16th President of the United States.