And now for a test of my dressmaking skills.
The day of the Carnival Parade is almost upon us. Only a few short hours and our classes will be bumping their way through an ill rehearsed routine in front of the Carnival King.
And I, I will be resplendent in a cardboard crown augmented with fragments of glass and tiddlywinks counters; purple tissue paper and gold card; glitter flakes and silver pen.
Glitter flakes are a wonderful invention. They come in plastic sauce bottles with a clip up spout and, when tipped, disgorge a shimmering array of specs of well, glitter. These flakes are tiny and metallic and only a masochist who had not had his share of self immolation would ever give these to primary school children. I was careful and mindful of the cleaning repercussions and I still managed to create a wide zone of glittering chaos all around me. The idea of a class, any class, getting hold of these tiny objects of desire does not bear thinking about; as it is I confidently expect to notice gleaming spots of brilliance around those front desks that I used for my nefarious purposes for the next term or two.
The crown is made. The costume yet to make.
I have brought home three pieces of material and I have been urged to use a simple stitch to marry them all together into a coherent whole.
The word ‘simple’ and ‘stitch’ do not usually combine in my day to day vocabulary. I found that my simple puppy dog look when the proposed ‘stitching’ was talked about did nothing to get the garment made. It actually appeared that the advice that was floating about concerning the making of the costume was actually for my practical benefit and not, as I thought, simply for information!
You will gather that typing is a more enticing idea than any aspect of my life as a seamstress has for me. I can vaguely remember Dando (my name for my father’s mother, a probable corruption for the Welsh for grandmother) teaching me chain stitch as we roasted crumpets against the bars of the electric fire. But that was when my age was in the lower single digit area rather than encumbered as I am with more years than I care to enumerate. Chain stick has long been relegated to that area of memory that looks back with a nostalgic shudder to such things as sherbet fountains and love hearts. These things are best kept as memories and distant memories at that: there is not necessity for these uneasy memories to be refreshed by present experience.
Yet I feel sure that sellotape will be inadequate.
With a sigh he considered ending his missive to the world and looked with fear and loathing at the task which lay ahead. He hesitated only for a moment after which a new resolution filled him with the conviction that he would and could do this thing. No matter what cost; no matter the humiliation; no matter the ill reward – he would throw restraint to the wind and sew until his fingers bled. If necessary. If he couldn’t find the sellotape.
Haute couture be afraid. Be very afraid!
The day of the Carnival Parade is almost upon us. Only a few short hours and our classes will be bumping their way through an ill rehearsed routine in front of the Carnival King.
And I, I will be resplendent in a cardboard crown augmented with fragments of glass and tiddlywinks counters; purple tissue paper and gold card; glitter flakes and silver pen.
Glitter flakes are a wonderful invention. They come in plastic sauce bottles with a clip up spout and, when tipped, disgorge a shimmering array of specs of well, glitter. These flakes are tiny and metallic and only a masochist who had not had his share of self immolation would ever give these to primary school children. I was careful and mindful of the cleaning repercussions and I still managed to create a wide zone of glittering chaos all around me. The idea of a class, any class, getting hold of these tiny objects of desire does not bear thinking about; as it is I confidently expect to notice gleaming spots of brilliance around those front desks that I used for my nefarious purposes for the next term or two.
The crown is made. The costume yet to make.
I have brought home three pieces of material and I have been urged to use a simple stitch to marry them all together into a coherent whole.
The word ‘simple’ and ‘stitch’ do not usually combine in my day to day vocabulary. I found that my simple puppy dog look when the proposed ‘stitching’ was talked about did nothing to get the garment made. It actually appeared that the advice that was floating about concerning the making of the costume was actually for my practical benefit and not, as I thought, simply for information!
You will gather that typing is a more enticing idea than any aspect of my life as a seamstress has for me. I can vaguely remember Dando (my name for my father’s mother, a probable corruption for the Welsh for grandmother) teaching me chain stitch as we roasted crumpets against the bars of the electric fire. But that was when my age was in the lower single digit area rather than encumbered as I am with more years than I care to enumerate. Chain stick has long been relegated to that area of memory that looks back with a nostalgic shudder to such things as sherbet fountains and love hearts. These things are best kept as memories and distant memories at that: there is not necessity for these uneasy memories to be refreshed by present experience.
Yet I feel sure that sellotape will be inadequate.
With a sigh he considered ending his missive to the world and looked with fear and loathing at the task which lay ahead. He hesitated only for a moment after which a new resolution filled him with the conviction that he would and could do this thing. No matter what cost; no matter the humiliation; no matter the ill reward – he would throw restraint to the wind and sew until his fingers bled. If necessary. If he couldn’t find the sellotape.
Haute couture be afraid. Be very afraid!
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