Fur’s Fur.

I recently discovered a family heirloom, no, it’s not the watercolour that my granddad did of my mum, standing next to a train, aptly titled, “Kate with Train” nor is it the yellow sparkling high-neck, long sleeved scratchy ball dress that my mother wore to her sixth form dance. It was a fur coat that belonged to my great-grandmother, and you can tell it’s really old because it smells like mothballs and it has a rip in the shoulder. My aunt, who is guardian of this piece of history said I can borrow it whenever I want. Question is, would I want to?

Part of me, the part of me that loves Anna Wintour (even though she’s a bitch), that loves Christian Louboutins (even though I have bad feet and can never wear heels for more than 10 minutes) and wants a Birkin bag (even though I know that the waitlist is a million years long) wants to wear it. Fur might mean dead animals, horrible slaughter and Pamela Anderson’s photoshoots for Peta. But it also means luxury, warmth, wealth and I always think of Russian aristocrats like in Anastasia for some reason.

I’m inclined to think we can’t wear fur these days, but what if it’s already dead? What if it was killed a long time ago? I’m not creating new fur items, I’m not financially supporting the fur industry and I’m not famous enough to spark a craze. In France, fur was all good, but here, I don’t think it would pass at all. But it would be such a shame to leave such a piece of history in a cupboard, wouldn’t it? Or is it too reprehensible?


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