350 x 210 mm
By 1989 my dear mother was almost totally crippled with arthritis and was unable to walk more than a few stumbling paces. A wheel chair was bought. Her hands were now so badly misshapen that she couldn’t wear gloves and in any event there was no possibility for her to even put them on. Mother had also lost most of her body fat and was now as thin as a rail and keeping warm was not as easy as in the days when she had been a little plumper. However she did like to go out and to the bitter end was a keen observer of life. I have to admit that it was mainly my brother Anthony who visited her in her Blackheath apartment as he too lived in Blackheath, not so very far away. Dais and I tried to take over for the bulk of the weekends by driving her to Albourne.
Once I realised the condition of her hands I thought that a muff would solve the problem. I knew that mother had a hat made from pale butter-coloured mink and that the furrier who made it had some skins left over which she had made into a cravat which she seldom used. From this I made the lining of the muff with the fur positioned inwards. I ensured that the fit was not too tight and easy for her to slip her hands into. I then found some dirty pink fabric left over from a couple of cushions which Dais had made and I used this to make the outside of the muff. The fabric, I hasten to add was quite clean it was just the colour that was dirty. The effect was plain and simple but I wanted to personalise it and decided that I would needlepoint her initials which I would stitch centrally onto the muff. To complete the picture I took all the initials of the first names of her family and loved-ones and needle pointed two bands to be fitted at either end. I was pleased with the effect and mum loved her muff ensuring that when she wore it her initials were on display for the world to see as she was pushed about Blackheath by my dear brother.
Within twelve months mother died and her muff reverted to me. It now sits amongst cushions on the back of a settee in our house and constantly reminds us of this remarkable woman. The last time she had worn it was a few days before she died when we all drove up to Balliol College in Oxford to witness the graduation of my niece, her first adored grandchild, Harriet.