The Sewing Machine

In a cupboard under a flight of non-descript stairs in a flat in the West country, there’s a sewing machine. An old model, no one knows quite how many years it has been in existence, some speculate thirty, others are less complimentary. Housed in a stiff plastic case, it speaks of patience long gone, with a fiddly bobbin case and stiff levers, which need oiling disproportionately to the amount of stitches sewn. Threading it is easy, when you know how. For almost an hour we didn’t know how, and frustration was creeping in until a relative fashioned the cotton to just the right route.

It belonged to a great-aunt, that much I do know. She’s long dead. I remember her name, the smell of coal in her back parlour, the stiff wooden sofa frame that dug into my back as a child. I used to like visiting, her husband would let us push endless twists of newspaper into the coal fireplace, our eyes widening as they returned to dust in the flames. ‘Pyromaniacs!’ he would exclaim, eyes dancing.

I had asked for the machine last year, on hearing that it was sitting unused in a loft. That didn’t seem right. A few months later it arrived on a ship from a different country, escorted under a Lieutenant’s bed. The journey took several days, rolling about on the frigid seas. It seemed fitting that it took such a journey. In my mind it had no place in the sky on a plane.

A few more months pass until I reach the West country, and I only remember the machine several days into my visit. We reach under the stairs and drag it out, a dead weight. Kneeling on the floor we blow dust from the case and flip open the clasps. It stares at us, stoically I decide later. The mechanism is threaded with pink cotton. A flap raised reveals needles, bobbins threaded with different colours, a small pair of gold scissors.

I wonder what she was thinking, that last time, as the pink thread looped its way into fabric long forgotten. I’m glad she didn’t know, wasn’t’ aware that the thread would only be replaced years later, by a distant relative – one younger than herself – in a far country, without tears. I try to find moisture in dry eyes, the occasion deserves it, but I can’t recall her face, or her voice, her smell. I’m starkly aware of the futility of time, the fleeting nature of life—thundering on unto death. The machine will sew again today. It will find new life, a purpose, until such a time as it ceases up with rust, or is forgotten, left at the back of a cupboard when removal men come.

-----

At 5am the following morning I wake to a buzzing sound, the soundtrack of postmodernity, a text from a friend saying someone in his family has died. A young man, with a hope and future, dead in less than 12 hours. Gone. I boil the kettle and call the friend back. I send love and useless words through space, feeling his grief for a few gradual seconds.

After breakfast I open an email. Friends from a far timezone are expecting their first child. Small grey-white images on a black screen have confirmed it. A warmth spreads over my chest, then a coolness. I’m starkly aware of the futility of time, the fleeting nature of life—thundering on unto death.

This Year's Christmas Tree

I must admit that I do like a nice Christmas tree. Not one of those thin artificial ones mind you, my tree of choice has to be real, preferably Norwegian and very fat around the middle (I’m not too bothered about the height). For several very reasonable, but boring reasons, we didn’t get a tree this year. To begin with I was indifferent, my head full of India and a sore arm, but once mid-December rolled around tree-envy began to manifest itself in not-so-subtle ways. I found myself standing in close proximity to the tree in the reception area at work just so I could get some of that authentic pine smell into my nostrils. Mrs B, the receptionist, was on a call at the time, but she did look strangely after a few minutes and I had to pretend I was admiring the tasteful plastic baubles. On Saturday I went to a friend’s for roast chestnuts, ginger wine and a baked ham (imagine my luck!), and I spent most of the evening staring at her beautiful, almost-perfect tree hung carefully with glass ornaments.

I couldn’t take it any longer. At Portobello market this weekend I went on a tree hunt – just for a little one mind you – but I couldn’t find one that was ‘right’ and small enough to carry home on the tube. Eventually I compromised and walked home with this… a berry-filled twig (not a ‘stick’ as my flatmate called it!) It’s infinitely beautiful and cleverly matches the print on the kitchen wall, but it’s not a tree is it.

*Sigh*

Grateful No. 3

This week, amidst jet lag and hunger, procrastination and late nights, I'm grateful for:

1. Four seats to myself on the flight back from Dubai... just bliss.

2. Cool air: not so much a biting wind as a nibbling breeze, but whatever it is winter is coming and I love it. Something about a warm scarf hiding a cold neck.

3. Time with friends this weekend: stealing time for myself to share with others, mulled wine, lunch, coffee.

4. One week to go 'til Christmas! This year has been choc-full of chaos, and peace lies on a Clifton curve, mince pie in hand.

A Christmas Morsel

This winter-season seems to have been sadly devoid of all Christmasy feeling. Maybe going to a hot country for two weeks at the start of December had something to do with the lack of fuzzy cinnamon-spiced feeling. But fear not, today I had a gentle introduction to Christmas with mulled wine and high-priced festive cheer in South Ken.

Words

I read to remind myself that I'm not alone.

Kolkata Last Week

Kolkata Last Week

O Calcutta!

The title of this post is taken from the name of a restaurant in Calcutta, where I spent nine long, rich, noisy days this December.

Picture the scene -- a grey street buildings leaning in from each side... a mosque... a small boy with walnut skin hugging a monkey... the rasping sound from a wooden clarinet... a ragged old man with pain in his eyes ringing a bell, over and over. A small girl, the height of my waist, asks for money for milk for her baby brother... the smell of hot, dirty oil frying in a wok at the side of the road.

Words can't describe this city, but if I had to try I'd start with one word: chaos. This is a city where life and death converge on the street. People live, eat, wash, sleep, love, marry, bear children, work, play and die on the edge of roads thick with years of grime. Every day a cahophony of activity - rickshaws, onions frying, children dancing, women crying, life unfolding - yet the activity affects little change in the situation of these broken ones. The darkness shrouds the collective sense of shame I feel -- shame that I live in luxury unimaginable to these beautiful souls, whose sole possession may be a blanket or a small piece of cloth. It's easy to become overwhelmed, to be paralysed by emotion, but the question remains: how then should I live?

flying by the seat of my pants

I don't particularly like that expression, but sometimes life twists and turns and I feel like that's how I'm careering through this strange life of mine.

You may have read of the planes grounded by BA because traces of radiation have been found on them. I was half listening to Radio 4 whilst drying my hair when I heard them say the planes had been used on routes to Frankfurt...

I went to Frankfurt by BA at the start of November, but thankfully the flights I was on were the day after the contaminate planes were used. When did life get so scary?

A small slice of humanity

Something unusual happened today. I was in Sainsbury's after work, idlely picking up a few groceries, lost in my own thoughts... I waited for the queue to twist and turn its way along, until I heaved my basket up onto the counter. The guy at the checkout was Indian, small with a killer smile, and he didn't waste any time kicking off a conversation. It wasn't even one of those polite three-second 'how are you today's either. We were laughing! Imagine.

That small interaction had me smiling all the way to the tube, heavy bag in hand.

It makes you think, doesn't it.

Party reminder!

For those of you who read this, come over our place tomorrow (Saturday 26th) from 7.30pm for cocktails and sushi. Yep we're going all out for a classy bash! No peanuts allowed.

India again

This time next week I'll be on a plane to Calcutta, via Dubai. I'm hoping that I can avoid spending the entire flight to Dubai throwing up in the toilet, as I did on my last trip! I was thinking today how I've become more than a tiny bit blase about travelling. I've done so much of this year that I am numb at the thought of another plane journey. Don't get me wrong, I love visiting new places and I've seen some incredible things, but the buzz has been taken out of it somewhat. It feels like the Christmas I finally realised that Father Christmas didn't exist, the magic has gone. I'm sure it'll be a good trip though, my third to India this year! I'll let you know how we get on.

Parlez-vous francais?

Oui, bien sur!

Those three words were the stupidest thing I uttered all week. Having decided that dragging up nine years of French lessons would be no problem at all, I was suddenly out of my depth. I could pretty much understand most of what the bespectacled Frenchman in a blue polo neck was saying, but I think I scared him by my lack of response, punctuated largely by the odd 'Oui' or 'Donc'.

Man I need some lessons.

Grateful No. 2

This damp, grey week I am grateful for:

1. Sleeping In. As one of my favourite tracks by The Postal Service goes, 'Don't wake me, I plan on sleeping in.' Ahhhhh.... A warm duvet and ten o'clock.

2. Butternut Squash: I'm sure we didn't eat these when I was a child, they seem to be a C21 invention. I'm loving the squash, especially in a soup with smoked garlic. Yum.

3. Alice Munro, namely 'dance of the happy shades', a collection of short stories that seem to me to be not unlike sugared almonds. I never quite fancy one until it gets into my mouth.

4. A week off. Almost over. *Sigh* But much loved. Christmas cards made, shopping done, mince pies in the freezer. Love it. Feel v. smug.

5. The Nice Lady in A&E who examined my sore arm after I feel over spectacularly like an old lady, shopping in hand. A. laughed. I cried. The bruies came... they're here to stay.

More wedding photos

Osam

Of honest men there are few
So gracious
As he who seeks to
Make others shine.

4 in 48

I want to tell you about a friend of mine. She's about my age, thin, shy, unassuming. She wears sensible shoes, a duffel coat and she mostly eats brown rice. Her face is rubbery, almond-shaped - not pretty - but what you might call engaging. At weekends she walks along the South Bank with a sketchbook, stopping occasionally to draw, pulling a thick piece of black charcoal from a plastic bag in her coat pocket.

People stop and stare at her
Sometimes
She doesn't mind
Small children smile, inquisitively.

She might sketch the flat river, a metal and glass construction, or a fleeting seagull, before squeezing the hardback sketchbook into her bag and walking on towards Tower. Just after one she stops for lunch: a brown bread tuna sandwich and a cardboard cup of mint tea. The crumbs scatter on her dress; she doesn't notice.

This weekend she counts four... the man in the cafe, a small flaxen haired boy who asks to look at her sketch, a Big Issue seller beneath Waterloo Bridge. And me.

Four conversations, exchanges of warmth, humanity.

Four.

In 48 hours.

And I almost didn't call her.

Fragility

"No matter how tough we may look on the outside, how many 'I'm fine's we can muster, we're all jelly underneath. I don't mean if the surface is scratched, I mean deep down, right inside. No matter what people say, we're slaves to the opinion of others, or worse, the disdain of the self."

Self-ish

Self-less

The latter the lesser of two evils.

Grateful

In search of a self who is infinitely more grateful for the everyday than the current one whose hands type these letters, I've set myself the task of writing the things/people/events I am grateful for at least once a week. Feel free to join me...

Here goes with tentative debut list:

1. Soy milk latte from Pret. The thought of creamy coffee in a red cardboard cup calls me out of my warm, lazy bed. The morning air grows steadily colder, and my quilt is increasing in comfort in direct proportion to the drop in temperature!

2. The thought of a whole week's holiday. I realised with horror that I haven't had a 'proper' break this year. By proper I mean one where I haven't been called on my mobile by work at least three times a day, or woken up in the night worrying about how to reply to an email. On Saturday I'm taking a train to Bristol to stay with my sister and brother-in-law for a week. I can't wait. I'm a domesticated feminist and will put that thought to use by baking an obscene quantity of mince pies in readiness for Christmas.

3. Books, namely Moon Palace by Paul Auster. I live my life in books, each day I think about characters from books I've read, sometimes years previously, and if I'm tired I confuse them with my friends. I'm convinced that most of what I know has been accumulated through a subltle osmosis through the thin pages of countless novels.

That's it for now! More next week.

Birthday drinks

The view was gorgeous,
The company even better.