Experts - Zip It Up

Thank goodness for the experts. We really need them sometimes.  I mean those proper, professionals that fix things before a drama becomes a crisis, not those pretend experts saying ‘you don’t want to do it like that’.  We seem to have needed them a lot, lately, and to some expense.

I’m good with a sewing machine and a needle and thread. One of my grandmothers was a dressmaker and tailoress.  She taught me plain stitching and sewing buttons on before I was seven years old. It is in my blood. At school, I excelled in needlework classes. I have made clothes and soft furnishings for home and for gifts. I’ve happily done alterations and repairs for people at work. Hems up, hems down, take in, let out, buttons on, zips replaced and very little turned away. Recently, to my horror, I had no choice but to admit defeat and hand something over to a proper expert.

The zip had ‘gone’ on my husband’s football jacket. The one he wears to matches, with the Blackpool FC badge embroidered on the left front. He’s had it for a few years, a really warm, good jacket, still perfect, apart from the zip which I can easily replace. I bought a new zip and it sat waiting to be done. I wasn’t well enough to tackle it, but no problem. There was a hiatus in home matches, anyway. Eventually, I set myself up at the table, maximum light and everything to hand. The jacket is black which could be a problem to my eyesight, but it is a straightforward job that wouldn’t take me long. Famous last words. I spent about half an hour struggling in vain to unpick the stitching and get the old zip out. Impossible. I tried again to repair the zip itself. No chance. A quick ‘Google’ for the nearest professional repair and alteration service, and husband despatched to South Shore to drop off offending garment before the shop closed.

I had to admit failure and defeat and my pride was hurt. I’m as much an expert at this as they are – but, no, of course I’m not. Nanna Hetty might have given up, too, or she might have known another way.

The experts replaced the zip. The very well made jacket is as good as new again.

 

In recent weeks, we've needed expert car repair and a plumbing job. Things come in threes. I hope this is the end of it.

A few Haikus with an ‘expert’ theme,

 

Sucking air through teeth,

Voicing a high estimate

For an expert job.

 

Freshly laundered scrubs,

The smell of antiseptic,

Surgery prepared.

 

A home made plumb-line

And a 'How-To-Do-It' book.

Who needs an expert?

 

They know how it's done

And make it look so easy

Behind a wry smile.

 

Flashy pin-stripe suit

The expert knowledge in a

Brown leather briefcase.

 

Perfect workmanship

Of a completed good job.

Pleased with the experts.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Sugar - A Little Stick of Blackpool Rock

 Somewhere, hidden in the maze of back alleys and side streets of South Shore, there once stood the rock factory. It was only a two minute jog away from our pub, very handy for my first summer holidays job and I was excited to start. Well, I was more excited at the prospect of earning a wage to fund the spends for my school trip to Yugoslavia at the end of August. Dad gave me pocket money for sorting empty bottles at weekends and re-stocking shelves when the pub was shut, but he’d paid for my adventure and anything more was down to me.

On my first morning, I presented my fourteen and a half year old self at a side door to the factory. It was only eight o’clock but already a hive of activity. I was ushered into an office where a fearsome looking man dressed in chef’s whites glanced my way and barked orders. I would work eight until six with an hour off at dinner time. I would brew up when told to for morning and afternoon breaks. I was given a pale blue, long sleeved overall, the same as all the ladies. Some wore headscarves tied like a turban. They were the ones who touched the soft, pliable rock when it was tipped from the sugar boiler. They rolled it, gently stretching it until it was the required thickness, or thinness. This was a skill. They had to work in unison and very quickly before the rock began to harden, otherwise it would crack when cut into lengths. The things we learn in life.

My place was in packing, no headscarf needed. I put labels on jars of ‘pebbles’, wrapped sticky tape round the lids and boxed them up ready to go. I put rock into walking-stick tubes and taped caps on them. I tied ribbons on to blue and pink plastic handles ready to be put into the ‘sugary dummy’ mould. Later, I was shown how to operate a machine that sealed cellophane wrapping round giant humbugs. I knew I’d reached a peak when, at last, I donned a pretty headscarf and went into the finishing room to learn how to wrap sticks of rock. There is a skill to it and I’m not sure if I mastered it. Holding one end still, it sort of twisted itself while my other hand rolled it quickly then twisted the other end, and remember to pop a ‘Blackpool Rock’ slip in as it rolled. It is likely that there's a machine to do it these days. Mainly, I was packing items up ready for despatch.

It was a learning curve about some aspects of the real world. Although I was brought up in pubs, some with ‘salt of the earth’ men’s vault bars, I must have had a sheltered life. I’d never heard so much swearing all at once and really rough talk from women and men alike. A couple of girls who had come to work in Blackpool for the summer talked openly about meeting lads and what they got up to on the beach at night. They weren’t much older than me and were friendly enough but laughed at my naivety.

The highlight of my time there was being pushed around the huge sugar store in a wheel-barrow by a boy I knew from school, also on a summer job, and jumping out quickly without being seen.

The low moments were nearly every day for the first week, probably longer, the sickly, sweet smell of molten sugar with a hint of mint or worse, aniseed, turned my stomach so much I’d be running down the yard hoping to make it to the loo before vomiting. At the very least, I’d have a headache.

I managed the full five weeks as arranged and had new clothes and holiday money for Yugoslavia. It was all worth it.

 

 

A light-hearted blog, a serious poem. I love this.

 

 

The God of Sugar (Sugar Shed, Greenock)

Cavernous – and empty now –
no shouts of dockers,
no barefoot women shovelling
molasses – it has the chill
and hush of a cathedral.

Like a pilgrim arrived at a shrine,
wanting something to touch
for a vision or sign
that a saint or god is there,
I rub the tip of my finger

against the rough bricks
of the wall and lick, tasting
sweet dirt, seeing, shining
in the gloom, an obese boy¬
like Elvis in a sequin suit.

What prayers should I offer
to this god of sugar?
Most fitting and proper,
prayers for the slaves
drowned in leaking holds;

or for those who survived
the voyage to the Caribbean
to cut the cane, lashed
until their backs were striped
with festering wounds.

Or prayers for the child
who spooned golden syrup
from the green lion tin, dribbling it
in spirals to form amber pools
in her porridge; who stole

from her mother’s purse
to buy red-tipped sugar cigarettes;
who ruined her teeth
on lollipops and seaside rock?
Prayers for the woman

who still craves sweetness:
savouring strawberries dipped
in the sugar dish, gobbets
of crystallised ginger, figs
almost rotten with ripeness.

by Vicki Feaver

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

Read More