Automatic

In addition to plentiful social action, recently there was a road trip.

Marmalade is working in my studio more than I am at the moment, and my studio is becoming our studio. We work around each other well, with room to spare for guests around the gold table and GorJus wrapped up warm in my Dad’s armchair.

Only ever having used domestic sewing machines, Marmalade was initially slow to use my ancient industrial singer. Once she made that leap she can’t go back and there are times wen we both want it. Obviously I get priority but I was feeling mean.

What we need, I said, is a another industrial, what I’d like is a Bernina 950.

Saucy and I had one for many many years. It died an untimely death, when distressed and distracted on the day after the Grenfell fire, Saucy oiled it with super glue. The workroom recently rearranged she mistook an oil bottle shaped cheap super glue container for actual oil. It was the smell that first alerted her to her mistake.

It went from bad to worse when I suggested we keep the motor going beyond the time superglue takes to set. We poured nail varnish remover into the works having heard it can dissolve superglue and kept the machine running for about 20 minutes. All parts still working. Result.

The following morning however it turned out that the result was that the entire machine, the glue having been nicely worked to all parts, was glued solid. Who knew that cheap fake super glue could be so effective?The machine had to be scrapped. It’s replacement became Saucy’s when our communal belongings were divided.

Ever since I’ve wanted another, I recommend them to anyone and everyone.

They are expensive, even the old ones that are Swiss made.

Luck was with M and I. I found one at a ridiculously cheap price on eBay. Actually what I found was an 850, slightly smaller, not so many fancy stitches that I’ll never use. No longer in production, it’s very lovely with all the best attributes of the 950 all in good working order.

To collect it Marmalade hired a transit van and we drove 70 miles. A journey that according to Google should have taken 1.5 hours, but Google hadn’t factored in the closure of the Westway. It took 2.5 hours just to get out of London.

Both Marmalade and I were grateful for some slow moving traffic. Although quite used to driving a van, and excited by the prospect of getting behind the steering wheel of a transit, this particular big bastard was automatic.

One of my many jobs, and easily one of my favourite jobs was being a Securicor van driver. I wore my enamelled, Vigilant and Valiant, badge 24/7. A life on the open road, alone in a van, radio blasting as I dropped off parcels to small towns, villages, remote country residences and a safari park.

I’ve never driven an automatic though. It took me sometime to reconcile to the idea that neither my left hand nor left foot had a job. My left foot, trained for clutch action only, insisted for a while that it should be in charge of the brake. Each brake attempt threatening to throw us through the windscreen while simultaneously causing some unsuspecting driver behind to crash into us. My left hand waved about trying to find a job to do. I did eventually get the hang of it, got quite smooth, reversed, parked and everything.

No accidents. Although I may have tickets yet to come for parking and yellow box infringements.

C’est la vie.

We picked up the machine from the tiniest cottage I’ve ever been in. It was inhabited by a small, sewing machine obsessed man, his similarity sized husband and their miniature dogs. Everyone, human and canine were very nice and obviously selected for their appropriate size for the accommodation. The machine really needed to leave.

I thank them for letting the machine go. I also especially thank them for the hot tips on van door hinge locking protocols, without which we may have had to drive back to London with the back doors open and the machine strapped tightly to the anchor rings. Had this been the case my old lady van driver personality may have not cared. What you effing looking at? I tried to remain a polite small car driver, but it’s hard when you’re riding high, in a big bastard vehicle and you are king of the road.

We failed to leave the van full of fag ends and Yorkie wrappers, but next time we’ll try harder.