In her own FASHION
After my mother died, my sister and I had the job of clearing out her wardrobe. It was sad. And not just because we were missing our mum. Her clothes made me sad in a way that was hard to explain. Surely she’d had some memorable outfits?
I looked for a purple suede jacket of hers from the 1970s. It had glue stuck on its wide lapel – residue from a “Hello, my name is…” sticker at a feminist conference – probably one where Marilyn Waring spoke.
I also had a vivid image of
