The Sound of Sewing

I remember the sound of sewing vividly. I grew up in a quiet residential street of matching white stucco houses, red rooves and handkerchief gardens in the far suburbs of Paris. Being a rrrresidence, it came with its own set of rrrregles, which the residence committee delighted in elaborating, pondering and pontificating upon in the clubhouse at the bottom of the road. A sub-set clause on lawn mowers meant they were only to be used on certain days, and in our house that was the sound of Saturday morning; a high pitched screeching to accompany the smell of frying bacon and eggs emanating from the kitchen.
The sound of Saturday afternoon, after the lawn mower had been put away, was the nauseating green bla of football - still hate that - while Sunday evenings brought on the industrious drone of the hoover, signalling the end of the weekend and the drab darkness of school in the morning.
In between all this was the sound of the sewing machine, unregulated by the residential panel and free to make as much noise as possible.
'Can you get the machine out of the wardrobe,' we'd be instructed and one or other of us would have to drag the deceptively heavy bulk from its home in the wardrobe where its plastic casing was stroked by the skirts and dresses it spawned, wedged into a corner by the dolls clothes, the handbags, the dressing up outfits for the cat.
It's hard to describe sound, but, like smell, a distinctive sound can transport you straight back in time and for me the sewing machine is the late 1980s. After the chunk of metal cheese falling on the floor the gentle whirr then, gathering momentum, building up to a steady drumming and finally, as both maker and Machine settle into their stride, the madcap sprinting and squealing and whining as the machine devours yards, acres, miles of fabric per second, all the time threatening to take off or self-combust in the pure excitement of the moment.
An annoying sound yet strangely comforting. The sound of childhood.