Button

This evening I sewed on a button. I know, stop the presses, right? Maybe all you fiendishly domesticated chaps regard the sewing on of a button as the task of a moment, airily achieved in between finishing up a souffle with one hand and hand-painting Florentine borders on your walls with the other. I regard sewing as a task invented by the devil, while he was taking a quick break after creating mayonnaise.

Since I am creature who either loves or loathes, I detest sewing and I always have done. I hate and resent the entire process of sewing on a buttom, from the 10 minutes it takes me to thread a needle, to the inevitable self-inflicted puncture wound. Clothes of mine that are missing a button can look forward to months of languishing in the wardrobe, and quite possibly never being worn again. Hems are easier to fix in that I get them done at the dry cleaners.

And yet, I love haberdashery. All those rainbows of colour and gorgeously rich fabrics, all that ribbon and lace, silver and gold thread. Haberdashery departments are old fashioned oases of potential, like hardware stores. And also like hardware stores, I don’t know what to do with any of their contents.

I went to the sort of school where, as well as being academic high achievers, us gels were supposed to shine on the hockey field and be able to make ourselves a new blouse if occasion demanded. Needlework classes were compulsory, like Latin, except I was good at Latin. Needlework started with the obligatory cross-stitch Kate Greenaway initial, progressing onto a bit of fancywork on a felt cushion, and rounding off at the end of the year with the demand that we make nightwear.

By that time I had more than figured out my level, which was below the bottom of the class and tunnelling down. We had to buy patterns and fabric. I found the most basic, unflattering pattern I could, which was for a full length night dress with a rounded neck and short sleeves. It was basically a large, floral, double ended sack.

The pattern immediately defeated me. I’ve explained that I’m not good with diagrams and none of it made any sense at all. I spread the paper out on my bedroom floor and stared at in a sort of numb horror for a bit, then put it all away. I think that eventually a helpful neighbour cut the fabric out for me, doing her best to explain. I may as well have been back in a Physics class for all the sense it made.

Back at school we were introduced to the sewing machines, fearsome, violent engines of incomprehensible construction and what seemed to me a terrifyingly dangerous sewing speed. I failed singularly to master threading the machine. Someone would usually take pity on me and thread it for me, whereupon I would sew a drastically uneven line of stitches, then jam or break the needle. Shamefaced, I would give up the machine to the next eager, competent needleworker and sit myself in a corner to unpick the miserable few stitches I had inflicted on the fabric. Thus went the term. At the end of it, somehow, the double ended floral sack was complete in its horribleness. To add insult to injury, my friend took the leftover fabric and in what seemed a matter of minutes, whisked herself up a sweet pair of short pjs with matching vest top.

Bitch.

On the few occasions I have ever tried to sew, the mingled sense of bafflement, frustration, embarassment and rage takes me straight back to the school sewing room. Every time I drop off a sewing task at the dry cleaners, my inner 12 year old rejoices.

Entirely novel

Maybe I’ll get on this novel writing thing. I think I have come up with a thoroughly new, fresh story, but one that will really cross genres. It is very exciting, and I’m still thinking out the details so I don’t want to give too much away. But this is my working title:

Mr Darcy Reading ‘Harry Potter and the Vampires’ in Tehran after Three Cups of Tea and a Million Little Pieces of Sweet Potato Pie with the Zombie Kite Runner of Kabul

Just past half-yearly update

So I appear to have fairly lax on the blogging front of late, which I shall ascribe to being busy and then tired. And then last week I went to California rather unexpectedly, for work, during which I had no free time at all but did stay in a completely hilarious hotel with a marked 1950s feel to it. As my colleagues and I breakfasted in the chaos of the poolside restaurant one morning, we remarked on how well the location would have fitted into a Raymond Chandler novel. I half-expected to see a body face down in the lagoon every time I opened the curtains.

There now follows a random update on the important things in life:

• Books. I’ve been reading a lot of them lately. I have somehow read 126 books so far this year, which is more than I usually get to in a full year. Giving myself carte blanche to book shop has been great fun. I think the highlights of the year, though, have been Little Bee, by Chris Cleave; Austerity Britain, by Austen Kark; The Suspicions of Mr Whicher, by Kate Summerscale; and the discovery of John Harvey’s DCI Charlie Resnick novels, from Bloody Brits Press. Also, I love the detective fiction book club I belong to. I thought university would be all hanging out with a bunch of intellectually challenging people and talking about books for hours, but it was more along the lines of drinking too much, watching Richard & Judy and arguing over who would make the tea. So, finally, there is bookclub as compensation.
• Bags. Because although I don’t need any more, today I fell in love with this bag and promptly bought it. It is such a lovely autumn colour. I’m considering it an early birthday present from me to me. My other favourite bag of the year is a small clutch bag, the front of which shows the Union Jack in sequins. I would include a link but I’ve tried twice and my Mac keeps crashing. www.accessorize.co.uk if anyone is desperately interested.
• Shoes. Oh, it’s been a very good shoe year, first because I’ve had two lucky strikes in a Coach half-price shoe sale, and then because I decided that purple 4-inch heels with a platform sole were perfectly appropriate for work. No one has really noticed the shoes, just the fact that every few days I am noticeably taller. Publishing – not as boring as you’d think. (Pretty close, though.) My next shoe purchase will be yellow Converse low tops, when I can find them in my size.
• Quests. My average year doesn’t involve any quests, so this was a bit of a treat. Even more so because I accompanied Princess Marcy and Princess Emily. You may read about it here and here. There were no dragons and no knights, which is actually fine by me because I read both The Practical Princess and Other Liberating Fairy Tales and Pippi Longstocking stories when I was about 8 or 9, and realised if you want saving you may as well do it yourself.
• Hair. Finally, at long fucking last, my hair appears to be that of a normal person again, in that it has reached sufficient length not to stick out in weird directions at every available opportunity. The acid test came today when I did not blow dry it and it turned out casually tousled and windswept, rather than ‘Who is that crazy lady with the wings on her head?’ Considering that a month ago I hated it with a passion and a vengeance and the only sensible solution seemed to be to chop off my entire head, this is a significant breakthrough.
• Plans. Bring on my holiday in October! I’m thinking Mexico, beach, pool, fruity-but-lethal cocktails and bonkbuster novels. Currently still in pre-planning stage while I try to figure out where is least hurricane prone.