follow the thread

On my way back from Pret (mayonaisse with that? How about some extra mayonaisse?) I cleverly managed to get the strap of the belt of my coat stuck in the buckle (how much or a trannie or weirdo does that make me sound? Like I’m wearing a safari suit in December, which btw, I’m not. I’m wearing a belstaff ripoff: black, greased-ish, with said buckle). Anyway, don’t ask me how as I don’t know how I managed but got the strap stuck and was forced to yank it out. This, somehow, pulled a bit of thread out so that it was wrapped round the buckle*. The only way to sort it out was to cut myself out of my belt. As I did this, I held one end of the string in my hand which caused my belt to bob around mid-air as if it had a life of it’s own. This reminded me (finally, I get to the point) of those funny toys you got in the 70s that were like overly fluffy pipe cleaners attached to lengths of invisible thread that you would pull around your person making it look like there was a flourescent caterpillar wriggling all over you. Crazy. And slightly disturbing as they used to whizz around quite quickly.
*talking of getting things caught, I once went ‘up west’ with my mum and sisters one Christmas and we went to The Oxford Walk. Younger readers will know this retail hotspot as The Plaza on Oxford Street but back in the day, it (thought it) gave Brent Cross a run for its money. Upstairs was one of those photographic studios where you could get sepia-tinted pictures of yourself in olde-worlde costumes (remember The Good Old Days on TV?), which sisters and I duly did. My nan still has one on one of her units.
Anyway, back in the 20th century we headed down the escalator back down to Oxford Street and somehow I managed to get my brand new black and white mohair jumper caught in the side of the moving staircase, causing a thread to pull and causing me to be sucked into the side of the escalator. I remember that horrible feeling of rising panic as I realised I was trapped. Only a quick thinking passer by saved the day by pulling my jumper and me out of the metal jaws of impending death or at the very least disfigurement. The jumper was ruined.
Another jumper that I lost in an unfortunate manner was the first I ever knitted. Yes, I knitted! And this was long before it was a trendy pursuit. I knitted myself a fluffy grey number with a low neck (OK, my nan had to help me sew it up) and I loved it. I was about 14 at the time and Skinderella-style skinny having started to shed the puppy fat that had helped make my life miserable for the previous decade and a half. I also made the fatal mistake of lending the jumper to my mate Geraldine who had (and indeed continues to have) rather large breasts. When I got my jumper back it was stretched beyond wearability around the chest area and fit only to be gifted to someone with huge breasts.
I still love my knitwear.