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Monday 23rd August 2004 - 5:16pm

Have a Dash at a Haberdashery

There are certain places men just aren’t meant to be. Miss Universe Pageants; Fernwood Fitness Centres; female public toilets; and, as I’ve discovered most recently – Spotlight. Actually, come to think of it, all haberdasheries should be avoided by anyone with a penis, or a speech impediment.

That’s not to say that men shouldn’t enjoy crafts or tailoring. I myself would be a lot better off if I knew a thing or two about sewing, especially after that time I tried to mend a hole in my jeans with a stapler and ended up bleeding from the genitals. But Spotlight is definitely not the place to be if you are a beginner; particularly if you’re a beginner like me and can’t bear the thought of actually asking someone for help. And why would I? It’s not that easy to tell someone that you’re going to medieval party and want to dress up like Merlin; I mean, I could describe what a need for a long majestic robe – but in its raw, unsewn fabric form it just looks like I’m making a large, sparkly kaftan. Sure, I can tell them until I’m blue in the face that it’s Camelot, but you just know they’d be thinking Carlotta.

So I was on my own. On my own in a giant warehouse that’s filled with more material than Bjork’s wardrobe. And they’re not even labelled properly! I saw the kind of fabric I needed for a Merlin robe in a section that said “PTD Fleece” – and I wasn’t quite sure why a fleece would need to be Proprietary Limited, but it sure sounded good.

So I hauled the roll out of the bin and lugged it across the floor, puffing and sweating all the way. I made it to the counter, and told the elderly lady behind the counter (whose name was Jeanette – naturally) that I wanted three metres of this Proprietary Limited Fleece; and she looked at me as if I’d just asked her for three metres of skin off her left buttock! She then informed me that PTD stands for Printed – I wanted PRINTED fleece, cut off my three metres and made me take the roll back to where it was. By the time I’d finally dragged, grunted and sweated the roll back to its holding bin I’d renamed it BTC fleece – Bitch to Carry.

I walked back to the counter to get my three metres from Jeanette, who didn’t seem to appreciate me sweating all over the rest of her printed fleece because it felt like she was following me around the store giving me dirty looks; so I decided not to ask her for help getting sparkly crap. I found another elderly lady (this one was called Gladys, naturally) and asked her for help. Unfortunately, she mistook my nervous glances around the store for threatened masculinity, and told me that I didn’t need to worry – just because I was in a haberdashery didn’t mean I wasn’t a real man, and my bits weren’t going to fall off. I told her I wasn’t worried about them falling off, but Jeanette was on the warpath and I’d last seen her in the pinking shears section and was afraid she might cut them off!

But I finally got my fabric, and my costume was a raging success (thanks to my mother, her sewing machine and some last minute begging to save me from going to the party in what looked like a misshapen blanket). However, next time someone has a costume party I don’t think I’ll be going to quite so much trouble. I’ll still go as Merlin, but not the big sparkly robed Camelot version – I mean Merlin from Big Brother 4. All I need is a smug look on my face and a strip of gaff tape – voila! Costume finished!

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