Sew not a good idea

I’ve just finished reading Laura’s Handmade Life by Amanda Addison, which is a light, fun and engaging novel about life, work, relationships, children, and, most crucially, sewing. I really enjoyed it, and as, coincidentally, I read it only a few days after handsewing lavender bags for my great-aunt’s 95th birthday present (made with lavender I grew and dried myself. Oh yes, feel those smugness vibes) it has filled me with enthusiasm for taking up sewing. The only snag is that I can’t sew. I mean I can, just about, sew a button on. And I can manage enough running stitch or back stitch for a lavender bag, but I don’t know any other stitches, I can’t darn or hem, and couldn’t use a sewing machine if my chocolate supplies depended on it.
And it’s so frustrating. My grandmother was an excellent needlewoman – she made all of my mum’s clothes when she was a child, up to and including her wedding dress and bridesmaids’ dresses. I’m sure she would have loved to have taught me, she did in fact teach me to knit, but I just wasn’t interested then, and now it’s too late.
But for a while now the habedashery department at John Lewis and the fabric stalls down Walthamstow market have been calling to me, and I’m more and more tempted to give in to the siren call. Watch this space.

In the beginning…

As a teenager I was an avid diary writer. After all, no-one could possibly understand the soul-searching and angst I was going through, so where else to pour out my heart? Coming from a stable, loving family, attending the local comprehensive, dating a boy I met at a church youth group; my life was far from dramatic or exciting, but in my head, and in my diary, Catherine Earnshaw, Scarlett O’Hara, Maggie Tulliver experienced nothing compared to my turbulent emotional life. At eighteen I went to university, met my husband-to-be, and haven’t written a single diary entry since. For the past thirteen years I have been too busy living my life to write about it, and although life has had more genuine drama at times, talking to my husband has always been more therapeutic than writing.
So why the change now? Well, it’s not that I’m no longer speaking to my husband. And any potential readers will be relieved to hear that I’m not intending this blog to be a vehicle soul-searching.
At this stage in my life I want to write about the little things in life rather than the big ones – the cakes I bake, the funny little things my daughter says, the places I visit. It’s an attempt to record the days that otherwise slip by like beads off a string and, as a stay-at-home mum, to connect me a little more to the outside world.