Seven scarves

The first much-wanted symbol of a status, a lowly small town college scarf, strips of blue and yellow woven wool stitched in stripes together, worn for warmth for years and still kept in the cupboard under the stairs.

A silken tie-dyed central soft-edged sunburst on gentle faded orange square, a treat for me, from me, now ragged, rolled edge ripped away, well-worn and screwed up in my motorcycle jacket pocket, fine enough to fit beneath the harsh-tight, high-zipped Velcro-gripping neck.

Argentinian alpaca, giant-sized, long-fringed and red for extreme weather, a souvenir, in part, of phone call from my elder son to say she’d Leap Year asked and he, delighted, had said ‘Yes!’

Plain black – my almost always chosen colour – a good and perfect black and softest cashmere, a birthday present from my second born, and equally beloved son.

And for another, later milestone birthday, the blue and blue and blue striped silk my daughter bought for me in Venice, its choosing time-consuming, its wrapping a tissued, multi-metal-threaded string performance in itself.

From me, for me, souvenir of Provençal awakening, jewel-like multi-coloured, loose and lacking certainty, laciness deceiving of its spread, its breadth and transient in quality.

Last and far from least material evidence from and of a virtual, sadly unmet friend, possessed of qualities unfound in the above:  hand made and sent and worn with friendship, warm and soft and comforting in times of loneliness or cold.