The lure of fur
In which I make the case for real fur, now that I have skin in the game.
Last week was deliciously and romantically wintery. How can you be so unbearably positive about the dead of winter, I hear you cry? Because nothing beats wandering through misty streets, heels clacking on the pavement, like a heroine in a film noir, when you are cosily encased in a real fur coat.
A dear friend was the lucky recipient of a haul of fur coats last year. She said she couldn’t possibly wear all of them, and generously offered me one. Wisely, she kept the luxuriously long ocelot and the soft mink and gave me the shorter jacket, which was a fur we couldn’t identify. It was pale, with an even strip of grey through the middle, long and somewhat coarse. (Darlings, anything feels coarse after stroking an ocelot pelt.) After much googling, and comparing of photographs, I have decided the fur is Canis Latrans - that’s the posh way of saying coyote.