It's not a bad life, being a cat, sometimes ... Here's little Grammy (who knows what colors suit him) curled up on the Victorian nursing armchair, with one of my mother's needlepoints behind him - I think a William De Morgan design. If only all her needlepoints had been like this ... there are a couple of cats, and one rather detailed La Dame et la Licorne tapestry replication in miniature, and I think a few more that are packed up, and probably just setting sail from Bristol as I write. But then there were three of drear and depressingly undistinguished flowers, and one of shells, in dull shades of beige and cream. I looked at them, half wanted to keep them, knew that if my mother hadn't taken pleasure - I hope! - in executing them I wouldn't have given them a moment's thought. So off, in the end, they went, buried in the unwanted blankets and sheets, to Battersea Cats and Dogs home, knowing that they would give some animal some happiness (not aesthetic, but to sleep on), and that surely that was a worthy end for these pieces of adorned fabric.
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