Cathy Stanworth: There’s no business like sew business

I find it hard enough to find a window in my day to bake a cake, never mind craft retro patchwork teapot holders, or run up a pair of print-clashing drum pouffes at my sewing machine to present to relatives as gifts. Mine probably wouldn’t really want a decorative fully dressed felt mouse anyway! And, to be honest, if I was to be presented with a gift-wrapped jar of homemade chutney on my birthday, I would be disappointed too. (Why couldn’t they just give me a small bottle of gin?!).

I walk past my vintage Singer sewing machine on a daily basis, thinking “I WILL get round to doing some sewing again soon”, but it just never happens.

I have a friend who is always whirring away, proudly showing me her latest skirt, or a photograph of an enormous patchwork quilt she has whizzed up. Oh, and she also goes to a weekly sewing class to swap notes with her fellow seamstresses. Just how on earth does she fit it all in?

I used to be adept at the needle, thread and peddle, chalk and pattern scissors, after teaching myself from an old Good Housekeeping guide. This had been kindly gifted me by my now ex-mother-in-law. She also passed on lots of spare material, after I had gotten hitched, (or should that be stitched (up)) at the alter to her son.

But back to topic. It’s always amusing to hobby dressmakers to be asked to run up something like an enormous meringue, sequin-covered wedding dress, from someone without the skill, for £50.

I was once asked to make a red Power Rangers outfit for a four-year-old. He had the mask, could I do the rest? I said yes, asked her to supply the material, and, a little while later, ta-da, here you are. Sadly he basically just ended up with a set of red pyjamas, as that was all I could muster up.

I remember hoping and praying that this little boy had a vivid imagination...

But my days of sitting at the Singer were before an exciting change of career that required all my commitment, and then two children coming along – thus marking the start of the juggling nightmare that goes hand-in-hand with trying to have it all.

I wasn’t always ‘sew’ brilliant with the bobbin. At school aged 13, as the new term began, I had the mortifying experience of finding myself in the top class for sewing. I sat there at the machine not having the faintest idea of why I had been put in the class, as I had never machine-stitched in my life.

“Err excuse me Miss, but I don’t know why I am here?” I said to the teacher, adding in a whisper, “I don’t know how to machine sew”.

“Oh don’t worry about that,” she replied. “You are here because you did so well in home economics and art last year. So you automatically qualified for this class.” (What?). So there I was, relegated to sewing practice stitches on spare scraps of material.

It didn’t help that the room was full of extremely talented Kirstie Allsop types.

Luckily our workstations were set against the walls, with the girl’s heads down at their machines, deep in concentration, so they didn’t notice my silent embarrassment. The best of the ‘Kirsties’ seemed to sew a new outfit up every week. I wouldn’t have put it past her that she could create her own wedding dress out of thin air. I secretly nicknamed her “Trousseau Girl”. I had a plan. Wheeling my work chair over to her, in a bid to make friends and explain my predicament, she was appalled to learn of my plight. “You don’t even know how to thread a machine?” she whispered in shock.

Miss would go round the room, checking up on everyone’s project progress. “What are you working on Sarah?” she asked. “A blouse Miss”. “And you Louise?” “A skirt Miss”. “You Charlotte (Trousseau Girl).” “My eighth bridesmaid dress Miss” (Ok, so I might be exaggerating a bit here). “And you Catherine?” “I thought I would attempt a peg bag Miss”.

I felt like I should be wearing a Victorian school cone on my head with a big “D” for dunce emblazoned on it. I was to escape the class when my family relocated for my late father’s work.

Looking back on my education I now realise just how sexist it was during the 1980s.

In home economics, as well as cooking and baking, we were taught how to iron a man’s shirt. At school, you never saw a boy in the cookery classes and if a girl asked to do metal or woodwork, the teacher would look at her confused!

Later, at secretarial college, lessons included those on having good posture (we had to walk up and down the room balancing a book on our heads), flower arranging, dress sense and personal hygiene. (Were they trying to turn us into Stepford Wives?)

It didn’t help when my late parents, both from North Yorkshire, were very much old school. When deciding to retrain for my career aged 26, the first thing my father asked was “Don’t you want to have children?” On telling him years later that I had taught my one son to iron a shirt, he gave me a look of disdain, quipping “I’m sure he’ll make someone a lovely wife!”

But I refused to be button-holed. These days things are so much improved.

You can do what you want, you can be what you want to be. No eyebrows are raised. Excellent.

On writing this column I stumbled upon some of the worst sewing jokes imaginable. As I am now running out of material(s), I’ll share them with you. Number one: Why are Christmas trees so bad at sewing? Because they drop all their needles. Two: My friend composes songs about sewing machines. He’s a Singer-songwriter. Three: If you are freaking out over a sewing project, don’t worry. You are simply Seamstress’ed. Four: (my favourite) How did you know the thief was a seamstress? She seemed to be following a pattern. Sharing these with my colleagues, it won’t come as a surprise that the one sitting next to me simply told me firmly to “Get out!” (Maybe he thought the jokes were a bit tack(ing)y).

So I’ll go then, back to walking past my Singer sewing machine, thinking to myself “I WILL get round to doing some sewing again soon”. Yeah, right.