Metal Cheese

The Machine arrived. And sat in a corner of the box room.
'I knew she wouldn't use it,' my dad said, ruing the loss of £100. Truth be told I was scared. If I turned it on, it might blow up. I mean look at it - how scary is that? A mechanical monster waiting to drill holes in my fingers, tangle me up in its threads, eat me all up and spit me out hemmed, trimmed and button-holed.
However if I didn't turn it on, the photography craze might peter out and the machine be removed from my possession before I'd had a chance to switch it on. I went upstairs one Saturday, closed the door and lifted the Machine onto the table. Still heavy, after all these years, the pedal, a wedge of metal cheese, landing with a clank on the floor. The plastic casing slid off smoothly, plugged to ON. The sound of a sewing machine coming to life, a sort of mechanical chirrup of welcome and then silence, expectant, taunting, waiting for me to put my foot down.