When I used to work in the heart of Soho, I’d go for a lunchtime wander and occasionally completely lose myself inside the enclaves of the various shops selling material that are dotted in amongst the sex shops, the eclectic eateries and the posh member clubs with anonymous doorways, not to mention the artisan coffee houses, pubs and the occasional strip joint. The eclectic joys of London’s Soho never disappoint.
Here, wandering around looking at the huge selection of materials that were stacked in perfect circles along the walls was something I simply loved to do. Patiently leaning on each other in rows three or four deep waiting. The formless, one dimensional rectangular shape wrapped on a roll just sort of waiting there for someone who had a vision and the skills to come along and fashion it into something three dimensional to wear. It all had potential to be something - a top, a blazer, a cigarette pant, a pair of harem pants, curtains, cushion covers - really the possibilities with materials are endless. Walking around, I had so many ideas, but truly I was lacking in any real skill to make any of it a reality. Regardless, I felt totally seduced by all of it.
Later on one of these escapades, by chance, I discovered a ‘trimmings’ shop. I had thought that the material shops were enigmatic. But here, in this place, in this electric cave full to the brim with colour and texture and neon over sized feathers, of buttons in every shape and size and colour, of bindings in any shade you could think of; glimmering sequins, leather, latex, rope, ribbons in every width, pom-poms and fringing big and small squidged together around the cardboard and the best thing ever, tassels - lined up in jewel colours beside each other, teetering with potential, all craving an edge to adorn. Oh it was just all so wonderful. Here in this tiny Soho shop, there was every sort of embellishment for garments and accessories that you could imagine so orderly and organised, waiting to burst into a new existence beyond the high concentration of being amongst other ‘trimmings.’ By comparison, the material shops seemed so plain and sensible. Here was the outrageous, slightly psychotic cousin.
It sent my creative flow into full drive, imagining all the clothes with embellishments I would love to make. I bought so many feathers. Except the one problem was my capacity as a seamstress. I loved the idea of being a fashion designer or someone who could make garments without it killing their brain. When I got my first sewing machine I spent around 9 hours learning how to thread it in one day, in one session determined to not fail. By the end, I had pricked myself around 1000 times with the needle, I had bobbins that were completely knotted everywhere and there was a sea of dejected thread detritus all over the carpet. And I was in tears. But I went up the next day and it was better and I kept going up to that little room, ignoring the PTSD of the first time and kept repeating the most basic of tasks. Eventually it became easier. And then I’d lapse and not sew for ages and when I did go back upstairs with visions of me churning out immaculately manicured garments that were ready to wear and that would be the envy of many, in truth I had forgotten again how to thread the machine and I would end up in another pickle with anything that resembled a piece of clothing a very distant pipe dream.
Clearly keen to serve up even more hell for myself I decided because I had (sort of) mastered the sewing machine then I should surely take the next step and invest in an overlocker - which would save me loads of time as I sifted effortlessly through all the garments I would make…..in my head. My God, if you think a sewing machine is hard to thread, try an overlocker. It is one of the most mind boggling things I’ve ever had to face. After hours of trying (and failing) to figure it out, my brain was aching like hell. I had a headache for two days afterwards. I should not have been surprised, I used to find the Krypton Factor a struggle growing up and really could not make any sense of what they were doing on that programme at all.
But I kept going. I tried and tried but progress was seriously eluding me. It got me thinking when the going gets tough, at what point should I just throw in the towel and give up? Should I continue pushing and persisting with this that doesn’t come naturally to me or am I wasting my time? Is there a tipping point at which I say, ok I think I’m finally getting the hang of this, after all of this effort. And then the satisfaction of nailing it is wonderful. I felt in truth, there was a distant glimmer of hope for me so I kept at it in small doses in between two kids and a half baked PR career on the wane. I became kinder to myself and said ‘ok, let’s not try the cigarette pants first but maybe say a tote bag to start with?’ Baby steps.
Like in yoga, many might start in a wide legged forward fold with their head not anywhere near the floor - but as time progresses (and yoga is a patient game), eventually heads do begin to lower and eventually touch the floor and then the next step, usually after a long time, is going into a headstand with feet off the floor. It seems such an unreachable target when you first set out but when you keep showing up and trying you do really progress. And honestly that headstand journey was mine.
During the pandemic, I came across a post on Facebook asking for help with sewing the scrubs for the NHS. I was so over home schooling and I needed a focus. With a tote bag still a struggle I knew it would not be easy with my very amateur sewing abilities. I resolved to dig deep - I had the time, I had a machine gathering dust and I had some capacity to sew (I resolved to practice in all those spare lockdown hours), plus I was living with my mum at the time who also had a machine and sewing skills that were better than mine. I mean everyone in lockdown was catapulted out of their comfort zone in some way or another. Compared to what the poor doctors and nurses and those suffering in hospital were going through, this was the least we could do.
So I called this leap of faith on. We cleared the dining room table and it became the sewing table. Before the electric green material arrived we were practising straight stitching on scraps of material that were lying around (I had a plethora folded in a bag that never saw the light of day after the years of inspired shopping in Soho). And then the workload arrived.
After some early mishaps - crotches sewn together, no room for torsos around the waist due to extreme stitching or no room for feet to poke out of the end of the trouser because we had sewn the hole by mistake, the occasional drawstrings that got stuck around the too narrow a fold, a couple of back to fronts and front to backs - we eventually righted it with the help of the stitch unpickers, and we got into the groove. And we did it! Proof below of us modelling a pair of the slacks.
I don’t know how many scrubs we made in total but I know we had about four hefty deliveries of material and we worked through it all. A proud moment not only because we had helped the NHS in some way during the pandemic but also because it was proof to me that actually when you have to do something or you really want to do it, you find a way, even if there are bumps and things you need to unpick or rethink, along the way.