101. That holiday feeling (3/3)

 I wake up to a dull rumbling sound. Are we living near an underground train station? Is this an earthquake? Should I panic? I go downstairs to investigate.

'What on earth is going on down here?'

'Good morning mum!' 

My eldest and my youngest are happy to see me and are completely oblivious to the chaos surrounding them. 

'Did you sleep well?' 

I mumble an affirmative reply. The room looks like a Red Cross warehouse on distribution day in a war zone. Heaps of clothes and piles of cuts of material in all colours and patterns are scattered on the dining table. Bags, boxes and crates are making the passage to the kitchen very difficult. In the midst of it all: the youngest of my children is sitting at the sewing machine with the eldest (Miss Organiser) standing behind her, giving instructions in a stern voice.   

'What's going on in here? What are you doing? Where do all these rags come from? What are you doing? Where do these rags come from? ...' I decide I am going to repeat this until everything disappears, the opposite to the silence vow. 

'Look! I've made you coffee!' My daughter knows an emergency when she sees one. 

'But tell me! I want to know! What's going on in here? What are you doing? Where do all these rags come from? What are you doing? Where do these rags come from? ...' I'm off again, a sure symptom of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

'Just relax, mum, we are on holiday! I'm teaching your baby to use a sewing machine. This is part of my new attitude to life: no more fast fashion, sew your own clothes, grow your own food. You pleased?'

I take a discreet worried look at the garden, to check on rows of leeks and onions that may have appeared across the lawn without my noticing. Looks fairly normal out there. Pity it is raining.

But the coffee is hot and tastes lovely, besides it comes with a round of toast. Miss Organiser knows how to keep her mother happy.   

'I'd like to know: where does all this junk come from? What you are doing and where are we going to have Sunday lunch?'

'Don't pull! Just guide the material!' She is ignoring me. I go back to my breakfast.

My baby has got a frown on her face and I can see she is losing patience. So the sewing teacher tells her:

'You've got to be patient! Nothing comes quick and easy, you know!'

Which prompts me to comment:

'Precisely! Sunday morning is not the best time and the dining groom not the best place! ... It's my house, you know!'

'Come on , mum! You brought me up this way! Put the screens away! Let your imagination go wild, let your creativity flourish, ... You should be pleased!'

As she gives a twirl in a pleated Prince of Wales far-too-mini skirt, her father comes in. His legendary cool is a little shaken.

'This skirt is too short.' He says as he nearly trips over the extension lead. But Miss Organiser has got it all under control.

'Hi dad! How are you this morning? Here's your tea!' She smiles broadly. 'Happy to have me over for the holidays?'

My husband takes his cup of tea and starts walking around the room. 

'It's your school uniform skirt! You've ruined it!' He tells his daughter.

'Dad! For your information: I don't go to school anymore. This (an other twirl) is called recycling.'

'It's far too short.' He mutters and looks at me.

'Don't you think it is too short? Look at it!'

'It's ok, she'll wear tights.' I mumble, my mouth full of food. I watch him, he is standing there with his cup of tea in his hand and he looks around him, trying to figure out out how to act when something catches his eye.

'That's one of my tee-shirts! I love this tee-shirt. What's it doing here?' And then, in shock:

'And why is one of the sleeves cut off?' 

All of us women present in the room ignore him.

'And this pair of jeans! I could wear those at weekends!' And as he pulls them out of the bag:

'Who cut the pockets out?'

I am not asking anymore questions. I know that all this stuff comes from the attic, and I know it is the stuff we cleared out from the cupboards during lockdown (while my husband was bored in his empty offices and was sorting mail and searching the net for a new lifetime hobby). The girls are peering closely into the sewing machine and discussing a particularly tricky bit of assembling. They are clearly letting me deal with the situation.

'They are trying to recycle some of the stuff. You know, and Baby here never learned how to use a sewing machine at school. So about time someone taught her.'

'Well, you could go to a charity shop instead of practicing on my clothes!' 

Then Maths-Head-Tornado comes down and starts rummaging around the boxes and bags

'Look at this checked shirt! Great!'

'That's mine too!' says my husband with a look in my direction. 'I've had it for years! It's still in perfect condition.'

'They're so the craze right now! Can I have it? Thanks dad!' And Tornado girl zooms out of the room with the clothing item. My husband finally sits down. The sewing machine is rumbling madly. Miss Organiser is now printing wads of patterns from a website. I think our Christmas this year might be themed 'The Little House on the Prairie' or 'Save our World and Go Amish' ...