When it came to the annual expedition to find the new "best" winter coat, my mother applied rather strict rules. The coat would not be worn until Mass on Christmas day, and thereafter only on Sundays or to very special outings. And fur collars would not be allowed because she thought they looked "cheap". Naturally I desperately yearned for a coat with a fur collar though as time went on the desire must have become suppressed. So for many years I have worn, for the most part, sensible coats - a penchant for tweed, a touch of cashmere, enlivened by the occasional dramatic silhouette, vibrant colour or fancy lining. Underneath though, the genes I share with my late Aunt Rosie, she of the dyed ginger hair, cake mascara, a small glass of sherry in the "off sales"of the Dog and Truck and the fur collar, have been waiting to do their dirty work. The sad truth is that I still long for a bit of fun fur. I saw some last week in Rolls and Rems, fabric emporium to the good people of Lewisham. I have been thinking that it would look rather nice edging my black cape, the one that makes me look rather too much like I have stepped out of Hogwarts. I have already measured up how much I would need. I may, just may, have to go back and buy some.
The beautiful fox, blatantly lounging around at the allotment last week, would understand I'm sure.