Back to school

I was nervous about the sewing course. Learning. It’s been a long time since I did any of that. My fears evaporated as I walked into our ‘classroom’, tucked underneath the Sew Much Fun shop in Primrose Hill. Brightly coloured fabric, boxes of thread, almost edible jars of buttons oozed dreamily out of every nook and cranny. A slight air of cosy chaos pervaded and there was no sign of a blackboard; this was school as it should have been.
‘Why are you learning to sew?’ Roz, owner of the shop and our new teacher, asked the five of us taking the course as we sat self-consciously in front of our matching machines.
All bar one, who was taking up sewing because knitting had given her arthritis, had the same reply.
‘We want to be able to make our own clothes.’ A little more probing and it emerged that all our mums could sew; we wanted to be able to do the same. Most of the girls - no boys – were in their thirties. Whatever the reason – credit crunch, creativity, nostalgia - it seems that for many younger women the Primark days are over. Buying cheap clothes is out; making clothes (more expensive and time-consuming) is in.
Ahem. Not quite there yet. For our first class we practised running stitches along lines on paper whilst discussing how clothes are made. It seemed that the simple tartan skirt I was wearing wasn’t just a skirt, but an assembly of component parts. Like a CSI, in order to properly understand it I needed to dissect it, analyse the hem, seams, buttons and all so that I could understand how it had been put together. Metaphorically of course. I still needed to wear the skirt home. But it was the first step to realising that I’d never look at clothes the same way again.
Still a bit wobbly on the old straight sewing, we then learnt how to zig zag the edges of a seam to neaten it, how to sew around corners and what ‘needle down’ is. A whole new world of vocabulary, terminology and techniques was opening up in front of my eyes, for background music we had the synchronised hum of five sewing machines and the occasional car crash juddering of snaggled thread.
It was lovely. A little sanctuary from the world above, deep in our warm, colourful bolthole.
And then we made a pin cushion. Something so simple, yet I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so proud. Sew three and a half edges of two pieces of calico, zig zag the seams, cut diagonals across the corners then turn inside out, stuff and hand sew the gap…
Hey presto. A perfect teeny, tiny pillow-shaped oblong, just waiting to be stuck with pins.
‘It’s too small,’ S said, laying his gargantuan head on it when I showed him that night. I could see he was impressed though. Just a teeny, tiny bit.