Sew out of my mind
Somewhere around the 22 week mark, I thought it would be a really neat idea to sign up for a home sewing and garment making course at the London College of Fashion in my 34th week of pregnancy. Do you ever get the urge to go back in time and beat yourself up? I’m experiencing that today. I obviously forgot to read about symptoms in later pregnancy, like tiredness, backache, shortness of breath and swelling.
It all started with the colour pink. In December, we went for a private scan to find out the sex of the baby, so we could tell all the grandparents as their Christmas present. Lo and behold, our Abdul is a girl. Which is wonderful. I like girls. I myself am a girl. Okay, I wanted a boy, but I’m past it now.
Here’s my dilemma: I don’t like pink very much. In fact, I’m a red lover, but a cursory look at the girls’ clothes in the shops reveals an overabundance of the colour pink. And it’s just so darned cliché, don’t you think?
So I decided to sign up for a clothesmaking course and buck the trend of pinkness. And today is the day I start.
I’ve packed my school bag with my Simplicity patterns and sewing paraphernalia and I’m getting on the tube to Old Street, every day this week. And I have to bring a 40-inch metal ruler with me for measuring cloth, so I guess I’ll have to carry it like a walking stick. I’m going to look odd, no doubt, but I’m more worried that an over-enthusiastic tube employee will take it away from me, claiming I could use it as a weapon. Hey, if nail clippers are a menace on airplanes, imagine what they’d make of a 40-inch metal ruler on the tube? I could use it as a poking device if people don’t give me a seat.
The annoying thing is that I grew up in the corner of my mother’s sewing shop. I should know how to sew like an expert, but, unfortunately, my clothesmaking abilities extend only to button repatriation. This is my penance for not paying attention to my mother.
I’ll let you know how it goes.