Don’t worry, it’s not a political rant.
Sometimes I wonder why people become the people they do. I mean, we’ve all heard the quote about how people never change, they simply become more themselves (which is a kind of ‘leopards never change their spots’ for optimists, when you think about it), but what are the events that shape people?
It’s a bit vain (well, it’s my blog, what did you expect?) but I do wonder what led me onto this craft-for-a-living, sewing-machine-by-my-side path (you can blame Etsy quite unequivocally for that – ‘write a good bio’, they say, ‘tell people who you are and why you do what you do’). I don’t think I can pinpoint the exact moment when I realised that sewing was crucial to my well-being (and career) but there have been several moments over the years which have led to my choice of work and perhaps the Tories ought to take their fair share of the blame for at least one of them.
Let me explain. This new-fangled fad of union members striking as soon as we get a Tory government isn’t all that new. Back in the 80’s everyone was at it; miners, students, teachers – even the dinner ladies at my school went on strike: every lunchtime they simply pressed a paper bag of some deep-fried potato into our hungry little hands and banished us from the premises for an hour. Yes, hordes of hungry schoolkids marauding around the estate with nothing to do; shoplifting rates must have rocketed, I’m frankly surprised any of the local shops survived.
A breeding ground for 'anarchists' with a rich history of malcontent (which probably isn't widely publicised in their prospectus)
Our Sixth Form, however, wasn’t impressed. (They must have been a revolutionary lot, I wonder what happened to them?) Worried that all the Teacher’s Strike action would damage their A-levels (that was what I heard at the time, anyway) they staged their own demonstration. I think it probably took all of thirty seconds for the rest of the school to decide to join them.
So there we were, practically an entire school worth’s of kids, happily chanting at the gates. Even the arrival of a local bobby didn’t dampen our spirits. If anything, our fervour just increased. By lunchtime it had been decided that a march into the town centre was necessary and a march duly happened. It actually made the front page of the local newspaper.
Like the good girl I was, I went home for my lunch and very excitedly told my mum all about it. We were on strike!! We were going to show them!!
I didn’t show anyone anything. Keen to quash even the beginnings of teenage rebellion, my mum insisted that I attend school that afternoon. (Actually, she walked me to school and made sure I attended. Humiliating.)
So whilst my classmates marched and ‘stuck it to the man’ (it ended badly, I later learned; violence erupted at another school and letters were sent home to parents decrying the pupils who took part as ‘anarchists’) I sat in my lessons. On my own. Yep, I think I actually was the only kid in the whole school that afternoon. I was definitely the only kid in my lessons.
And my lessons, that afternoon? The lessons that my mother decided were far too important for me to miss? Sewing. Triple sewing.
I hated sewing at school. I could never remember how to thread the machine and because I never did it properly it got jammed and tangled and needles were broken (there is nothing quite like the almost stunned sound a sewing machine makes when a needle smashes against the needle-plate, ugh) so I avoided using the machines as much as possible. (Ah, funny how things turn out, isn’t it?).
In honesty, my sewing teacher, Mrs Binnion, was probably as pleased with having one pupil as I was with being there at all. After all, her colleagues were overdosing on coffee and cigarettes in the staff room and generally making the most of an unexpected day off and she had to bloody teach. I expect she was inwardly cussing my mother as much as I was. But she didn’t show it.
I’m not going to gild history and tell you that those three hours flew by and I suddenly loved sewing lessons. I still loathed them. But I finished (eventually) and, more importantly, wore, the dressing gown we all had to make. And, although I wouldn’t have admitted it back then, I’d developed a new respect for Mrs Binnion. Yes, she may have looked like a spinster librarian (the twin set and pearls and cat’s eye glasses may all be details supplied by my imagination but they feel quite definite) but she could sew. And muster enough patience to try to teach a solitary pupil who lacked the interest to learn.
I wish there were more teachers like that.
Oh, and did I say blame the Tories? Maybe I should thank them (which challenges my political views to the point where it makes my brain hurt).
Incidentally, I saw Mrs Binnion years later in Sainsburys. She was just ahead of me in the queue and I really wanted to say ‘hello, do you remember me, I was your only pupil on the day the school went on strike’ but I was a bit embarrassed. In retrospect, I wish I had said hello.
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