Dangerous sewing debacle: one seriously injured

“Why have a dog and bark yourself” was perhaps not my most tactful opening, and if I think back, that was when the trouble started. I had been waiting for about two years for That Nice Lady Seamstress to get a button sewn on one of my shirts and had finally snapped and asked if we had a sewing kit. These are the implements of a mysterious dark art for me, and I venture to suggest that the same would be true of any good clean living normal man.

She did not take the hint and showed me a curious looking box, which I had not seen before with all sorts of buttons, reels of cotton, pins and needles inside. She deliberately ignored my pathetic scared look which I had been practicing. I opened Pandora’s box, selected what looked like a needle and some dark blue cotton (it was a dark blue shirt that was missing a button) and prepared to do woman’s work; sewing. I say selected and that was true, but picking up the needle is beyond anyone without long girly finger nails and is thus clearly impossible for a man, I had to enlist the help of that Unhelpful In House Seamstress Operative to extract said needle from its pretty little tin. Now as we get older, it is often true that our eyes gradually become unable to see small things, like the eyes of needles, so once again, I had to beg for help in order to get to the next stage.

The water is just not going away

Reluctantly she threaded the needle and asked me what I thought I was doing with blue cotton. “It’s a blue shirt” I said triumphantly. “I know that” she said rather testily, “but all the other buttons are sewn on with white cotton”. Once re threaded with the correct colour, I felt certain that she would take pity on me and take over, but no. I ploughed on and discovered that sewing is a very dangerous and painful pastime. I wonder if any of my in-house limericists will be able to resist using the word “prick” when it comes to my sewing escapade.

Exalted at my eventual success, although nursing several life threatening needle inflicted injuries, I spent the afternoon with happy thoughts of the benefits of Currencies Direct, and the arrival in early evening of dear old pal, pop star and film star, John Otway. We met at the Bridge at Amberley in the early evening to commune with beer and discuss the continual functioning of UK entertainment business and thereafter, we adjourned to Arundel, taking in the White Hart, the Kings Arms and a blues night at Arundel Jailhouse before ending up, post curry, at the Red Lion for the simple reason that it was open until midnight. The curry had been delivered, as is now customary, to the Kings Arms, where we once again availed ourselves of the opportunity to enjoy some of India’s finest dishes over a pint of proper beer , rather than that dreadful gassy lager that they insist on serving at most Indian restaurants. I feel very strongly that these nasty fizzy excuses for ale should only be served when it is very hot, and although these kinds of meals can be very hot in a different sort of way, I see no excuse for it. At this stage , one might say to me “easy Tiger”.

So, nursing a monumental hangover, courtesy of my old performing pal, who said it was a good idea to have a glass of Scotch upon being ejected from the pub at closing time, I shall spend today whimpering in a dark corner and cursing alcohol in general and John Otway in particular.

Chris France