During the first week of December I flew to England to visit family, the flight was long and the lay over in Amsterdam not long enough, to do anything respectable with. So I sat and read a fascinating book on the science of dogs, ate overpriced very average sushi and tried to stay awake. I arrived in England to an airport that felt like an episode of ‘Faulty Towers’ with missing luggage and the encouraging statement that ‘forty bags had gone missing yesterday’, it took three days to get my luggage! In one of my trusty suitcases were several yards of thick heavy cranberry colored fur that I was having made into a cape. I have long held a fascination with ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ although these days I prefer the title ’Mistress’. My personal theory is that Red and the Wolf meet in the dark forest whereupon she captures his wolfish heart and together along with all manner of woodland creatures they get up to all kinds perfectly wicked mischief. 
Thankfully the missing luggage reappeared and my fabulously furry cape was made. Back to Red Riding Hood, I was nineteen years old doing theater in England and traveling all over the country with a production of ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ and yes I was Miss Red, with long red ringlets to match. I had just left Stratford and was on the way to somewhere else when I met the lady who was to become a future mentor, friend and ‘my other mother’. To this day she adamantly refuses that she was ever a Mistress or knows what such a thing is, however she was without doubt an inspiration as I took my first formative steps into this ancient profession. Endless cups of tea, and hours poring over books of black and white photographs listening to stories of her extraordinary life.
At some point and soon I hope I will start writing down these stories and share the ones with you that she permits along with a photograph or two. Returning home at Christmas to the remarkable thirteenth century cottage she calls home, I was formally presented with the foxes and a riding whip with a exquisite antique handle that had been made for her. The foxes I had long since admired from those early ‘Red Days’, the whip well simply a passing on of the baton I think.
Eye’s the foxes lovely black boots with longing tongue hanging out…
Foxy boot worship, now there is a thought!
Where do I sign up? I’ve seen that latex fox…droools.