Exercise – to write about a box I took down the sewing box from the shelf. It had been there a long time – I don’t do much sewing nowadays. Clothes are so cheap that when they are worn out they are thrown away or if just out of fashion, sent to a charity shop.
The box was square; an old biscuit tin. I wondered what biscuits it had contained, where it had come from. We used to have biscuits in packets at home, not tins. There used to be tins in shops full of broken biscuits that were bought by people who couldn’t afford packets. We had been poor, but not poor enough for broken biscuits.
The box must have come from somewhere though, handy when I needed it for school. It was the first homework, for the first needlework class, in the new school. I had covered it in wood effect Fablon, what a wonderful sixties name. They called it sticky backed plastic on Blue Peter, the BBC careful not to mention brand names. It was a silly thing to do with a tin box. Why hadn’t I started with a wooden box?
It was lined with foam rubber. I remember my father helping me with the measuring and cutting to size, then covering each piece with material and sticking it to the sides and bottom of the tin. A border had to be left at the top, as the inside of the lid was lined in the same way and had to fit snugly. My father was good with his hands, always making and repairing. We miss him now.
The material was brown with a watered silk design. I suppose my mother had provided that, perhaps some old curtain. I don’t remember my mother’s sewing box, although she must have had one. I remember her blue knitting bag though. Was it the same blue bag that was used on holidays? If anything was needed, the reply would be “it’s in the blue bag!” Perhaps I’ll ask her. She might not know what happened yesterday, but she should remember that.
My grandmother had a button box. That was a round tin. My sister liked to play with it, sorting the buttons to find her favourite. I hated it. I had a fear of buttons, especially small glass buttons, Koumpounophobia it’s called. Perhaps some experience when I was too young to remember had caused this fear. At least that was one thing my sister and I didn’t fight over. I rummaged through the box: bits of material from past and never completed projects; zips for some never attempted repair; knicker elastic, never used and probably perished by now; bias binding. Does anyone still use bias binding? Did they ever use it? Yuck, some buttons, but safely attached to cards or in bags, so no threat. I come across a small bundle of nametapes for my son and remember the hours I spent sewing them onto bits of school uniform. They didn’t work because they were never returned when lost. I hold them in my hand and wonder if he could find a use for them. I decide that thirty one year old men don’t label their clothes. I should throw them away, but instead I put them back into the box.
Finally I found what I was looking for. I cut off a length of cotton and threaded a needle. Just a few stitches and that hem would last a few more outings. I put the lid back on the tin.
The box was square; an old biscuit tin. I wondered what biscuits it had contained, where it had come from. We used to have biscuits in packets at home, not tins. There used to be tins in shops full of broken biscuits that were bought by people who couldn’t afford packets. We had been poor, but not poor enough for broken biscuits.
The box must have come from somewhere though, handy when I needed it for school. It was the first homework, for the first needlework class, in the new school. I had covered it in wood effect Fablon, what a wonderful sixties name. They called it sticky backed plastic on Blue Peter, the BBC careful not to mention brand names. It was a silly thing to do with a tin box. Why hadn’t I started with a wooden box?
It was lined with foam rubber. I remember my father helping me with the measuring and cutting to size, then covering each piece with material and sticking it to the sides and bottom of the tin. A border had to be left at the top, as the inside of the lid was lined in the same way and had to fit snugly. My father was good with his hands, always making and repairing. We miss him now.
The material was brown with a watered silk design. I suppose my mother had provided that, perhaps some old curtain. I don’t remember my mother’s sewing box, although she must have had one. I remember her blue knitting bag though. Was it the same blue bag that was used on holidays? If anything was needed, the reply would be “it’s in the blue bag!” Perhaps I’ll ask her. She might not know what happened yesterday, but she should remember that.
My grandmother had a button box. That was a round tin. My sister liked to play with it, sorting the buttons to find her favourite. I hated it. I had a fear of buttons, especially small glass buttons, Koumpounophobia it’s called. Perhaps some experience when I was too young to remember had caused this fear. At least that was one thing my sister and I didn’t fight over. I rummaged through the box: bits of material from past and never completed projects; zips for some never attempted repair; knicker elastic, never used and probably perished by now; bias binding. Does anyone still use bias binding? Did they ever use it? Yuck, some buttons, but safely attached to cards or in bags, so no threat. I come across a small bundle of nametapes for my son and remember the hours I spent sewing them onto bits of school uniform. They didn’t work because they were never returned when lost. I hold them in my hand and wonder if he could find a use for them. I decide that thirty one year old men don’t label their clothes. I should throw them away, but instead I put them back into the box.
Finally I found what I was looking for. I cut off a length of cotton and threaded a needle. Just a few stitches and that hem would last a few more outings. I put the lid back on the tin.