Vintage by the Sea

I made a startling discovery on my recent trip to Deal, in the form of a little shop aptly named Vintage by the Sea. The window display alone was a veritable Aladdin's cave, full of trinkets, and beautifully odd pieces of furniture, along with vintage dresses and hats and... furs.

I stepped in.

I ruffled through the furs and tried one for size. Perfect. Big and luxurious and just the right length - dress length - with delightful bell sleeves. My mother had mentioned she'd seen this particular fur in the window and had thought of me - she was right on the money as usual. It was exactly what I'd been looking for, and without the inflated London pricetag.

Purchasing said fur meant really thinking about wearing it, and what it meant. I wouldn't wear a new fur - not only because I'd have to sell at least two of my organs to afford one, but also because I don't want to be responsible for animals dying today, and I can't quite justify being part of that consumer chain. Wearing vintage fur isn't cut and dry - you're still contributing to the market by wearing and promoting it - but my minks have been dead for about 70 years now. And I am wearing something very beautiful, and making the most of it. As did the owner before me, and the owner before that.

This is a long winded way of saying I'm flawed, and I don't have all the answers, and I'll be travelling to the fiery depths of hell in a mink. An absolutely bloody gorgeous mink.

The discovery of mink, and the daddy who bought it for me.