Sampler

 

Sampler

Rather than show the sampler, I thought I'd show the young adult relatives of the baby. This was the occasion of Hailey's parents' wedding, long before she and her elder sister put in an appearance. These are the six oldest grandchildren. 

CLockwise from top left: Callum, the happy bridegroom, now 28, Elliot, 27, Kiri, 30, Marnie, 32, Eve, 24, and Louis, 22.

I’m just finishing a cross-stitch sampler I started months ago to mark the birth of the youngest member of the family, Hailey, who was born in March. I started one, but it looked all wrong, so I abandoned it and began another. It doesn’t look too dreadful, and as I suspect it will be received with thanks and then ‘put away’ I’m not too bothered.

All I had left to stitch was the date. I’d counted all the squares and was just reaching the end when I realised I’d miscalculated and hadn’t centred it correctly. I couldn’t face unpicking it, so decided to improvise and add some flowers in the unplanned spaces.

Then I’ll wash it, mount it, and frame it. It’s the last birth sampler I’ll make. The next clutch of grandchildren doesn’t look ready to have babies yet, and cross-stitch isn’t quite their style anyway.

I enjoy cross-stitch, but I haven’t my mother’s skill with a needle, or her patience. Nobody will be bidding for my work in centuries to come!

The devil makes work for idle hands

 

The devil makes work for idle hands

Note: The photographs were taken at odd angles. It adds a certain 'je ne sais quoi', I think.

It is said that the devil makes work for idle hands. In an effort not to be bedevilled, I undertook several jigsaws and cross-stitch projects during our endless lockdowns. I also bought more sheet music and hammered my way inexpertly through Satie and Debussy as well as revising old favourites like Bach and Handel, Mozart and Beethoven. It was to everybody’s benefit that I donned headphones so that the screeching mistakes I made were heard only by me.

How many lockdowns did we have? Time has numbed my memory and the days, weeks, months, thread seamlessly together, like a large, untidy quilt. To revisit what has happened, or, on most days, failed to occur, I have to refer to my journal. Now, this is supposed to be a discipline and I am meant to write in it daily, but very occasionally several days pass before I set pen to paper, and then I write masterful – mistressful? - comments, such as, ‘Can’t remember what happened this week. It’s now Thursday.’ In further deathless prose, I record, ‘Not very warm today. Barry lit a fire.’ On yet other occasions, I rail against politicians, setting out chapter and verse, conscious that as a diarist it is my ‘duty’ to document current affairs. Who am I kidding? I am no Samuel Pepys and no-one is ever going to read my trite offerings.

On odd occasions – very odd – I have read my old diaries and experienced once again the emotions and reactions I felt at the time of writing. Memories are stirred by words as potently as by photographs.

So, my unbedevilled hands were occupied and my brain was prevented from entirely atrophying by all these pastimes. While doing jigsaws or cross-stitch, I also listened to audio books, some fiction, others non-fiction, so my ears were kept busy, too. Does the devil make work for idle ears, I wonder?

The cross-stitch I undertake is counted cross-stitch, the oldest form of embroidery. It has been in existence since mediaeval times, that is, from the late 5^th to the late 15^th centuries. I clarify that in the vain hope that the information will remain in my head. I remember once asking a history teacher whether the Middle Ages changed over time, that is, moved with the times. It seemed eminently logical to my 12-year-old brain.

Counted cross-stitch requires concentration and the ability to count squares or threads in the material to be embroidered. It’s very simple and also extraordinarily easy to make mistakes. Experienced embroiderers excuse inaccuracies by claiming them as ‘personalisations’, but that doesn’t work in symmetrical designs.