My daughters have asked for a sewing machine. It seems like such an innocent request, but I’m suspicious. It’s not that I want to discourage their new-found enthusiasm for dressmaking, because I think it’s a really useful skill to have, it’s just that I wonder where they got it from, because it certainly wasn’t from me. When I walk into the sitting room now, I am immediately confronted by a row of Groovy Girls, all dressed in this season’s latest designs, made from Alice’s old pyjamas and various bits of clothing found at the bottom of the wardrobe. The girls are endlessly designing dresses, and even I can see that Rosie especially, has a real talent that needs developing.

I have painful memories of school needlework class, and of the length of time it took me to make an orange and brown tea cosy and a truly hideous sludge green A-line skirt, which I hated so much I could never bring myself to wear. That was the sum total of my sewing career; I hated those paper patterns and all the fiddling about with the pins and that funny triangular chalk. My hems were never straight; they puckered. Wearing my own creation would have been like putting on a big pointy hat with the word, ‘Dunce’ written on it. I was a failure at sewing, and I hoped that I might spend the rest of my days in blissful ignorance of the vagaries of dressmaking, but for the sake of my girls I do now feel that it might be time to bite the button and get busy with the pinking shears.

I’ve been researching sewing machines and a whole new world has opened up. I thought overlocking was something that two sweaty men in tight trunks did against a cage in an Ultimate Fighting bout; I though a zipper foot belonged to one of those comfortable sheepskin-lined boots that old ladies wear on frosty mornings, but how wrong I was. It’s a complicate business, and there’s so much to learn, but do you know what? I’m not the one who’s going to be learning it. Sewing to me is all about contrast; it’s all about sharp and soft. The bits you need to make the clothes are all sharp: Pins that poke, needles that pierce, and scissors that slice; and that devilish little device that rips up hems. You know, the pointy curved thing that looks like it could have been designed by an Ottoman warrior…

Cut to battle scene….
‘Come here, you cursed infidel!’
’What, are you going to prick me with that tiny pin thingy? Get lost; I’m not scared of you. Where’s your scimitar, you big nancy?’
‘Infidel, it may be small, but it’s not size that really matters, so prepare to feel my wrath.’
‘Ha, ha haa….ouch, what are you doing? You’ve let down the hem of my tabard. I might trip and fall now. Curses! I’m going to have to leave the battlefield and find a wench to do a running repair.’
‘See infidel, the small pointy thing is truly mightier than the sword..’

There’s pain involved in sewing, but in the end you are rewarded by softness, or in my case, nerdiness and shame. I should have worn the tea cosy, because it would have been a damned sight more stylish that that horror of a skirt. But I put my past experiences behind me, took the plunge and ordered a cheap sewing machine, in the hope that I can nurture Rosie’s burgeoning creative talent. I do hope she doesn’t expect me to help her when she starts to make her couture collection, because I’d rather stick pins in my leg.

The holidays are dragging on, and I am trying to get the house in some sort of order. There are some days when I can while away several hours doing very little at all, but occasionally I get possessed – not in an Excorcist-type way, but in a manic ‘can’tstopseeingthingsthatneeddoing’ way.

I woke up on Monday morning feeling totally wired. It was sunny, and the garden beckoned. The first thing I decided to do was tackle the overgrown thistle and bramble mess that constituted my side garden. I have a perfectly good strimmer, which could have done the job in a matter of minutes, but I also have a huge old scythe and a long-handled slasher, and I think old tools deserve an outing every now and then. There’s a certain satisfaction in getting a whetstone and sharpening your tools before commencing horticultural carnage; it prepares you mentally for the task, and it makes the task that much easier. I’m not going to pretend that it wasn’t hard work, the sun was beating down and the physical exertion needed to swing the scythe in the correct rhythmical motion produced rivers of sweat, which trickled down my face, running sun lotion into my eyes; but there’s no gain without a little pain, so I carried on until the ground was clear. It was just like a trip to the gym, only without the expense, and once the massive pile of brambles and grass was forked into the compost heap, I looked around for another job.

I remembered that I had promised Walker and Deb that I would strim their garden. Deb has a broken heel and can’t do very much at all, which has resulted in the weeds running amok. As it was such a lovely day, I thought I’d do a quick bit of strimming and pop back home for a rest.

The job was rather bigger than I’d first thought. The sun was beating down by this stage and I wasn’t wearing a hat, but I’d promised to do it and I never let my friends down. After two hours of hand weeding and strimming in the sweltering heat I began to feel like I was going to collapse. I popped in to tell Deb I’d finished, packed up my girls and drove home. I looked like a big, Audi-driving beetroot, and that’s not a good look, I can tell you. You can achieve the same look in the comfort of your own home by holding your breath and straining until your eyes bulge, but please don’t try it.

After I’d had a cold shower I tried to relax in the garden, but that gnawing mania prevented me from sitting still for long, so I decided to cut the grass on the lane and the back garden and then, just for good measure I pressure washed the green stuff off the back of the house. By this stage my girls were beginning to look a little anxious, and I could see their fingers hovering over the 'phone, ready to dial the number for our local secure psychiatric unit. All that I had to do to round off the day was rustle up our supper, and sausage and mash seemed like just the thing. I washed it down with a nice, cold Guinness, put my feet up and felt like I’d done a real day’s work.

And then I watched Big Brother and really rather wished that I hadn’t. I’ve seen some base things in my time, but watching Kinga have her own little Bring Yourself off with a Bottle Party, was one reality that I could have done without. Television is dead. The nadir has been reached. I’ve worked in the industry for the last 23 years and I truly don’t want to be associated with a medium that brings such unutterable crudeness into people’s homes in the name of entertainment.

Time to do something a little more worthwhile, I feel….


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