One of the stories I'll always remember, partly because it chimed with me, was told by the son of a man who was barely conscious and certainly had no energy to talk. But his son was really keen to tell me about his father's travels from the north of England to various African countries. He was a cloth salesman. The love his son wanted to reveal was the man's love of cloth.
This cloth, which for me is a substitute for a wardrobe door, hangs from a pole in my bedroom. It's a style I've seen in villages in the north of South Africa when I used to go there with my ex, the father of my children. Women knot two lengths of similar cloth at each shoulder to make a dress. It's a fantastic style.
I've just finished a dress with linen I bought at Utrecht market. My daughter lives in this lovely Dutch city and I visit fairly often, booking Eurostar in advance for cheaper tickets. Well, it's generally cheaper than an off peak return to Huddersfield even with senior railcard.
I was so excited by Utrecht market that one year I bought several lengths of linen. Two of them I've made up in the same pattern. Two I made into summer coats, including a 'mother of the bride' coat. I have left a length of scarlet bamboo that looks like linen and that came from Ditto in Brighton. I can remember where almost every item of clothing I have came from because I buy so little and I generally buy secondhand. Ursula who manages St Vincents down the road is the wardrobe mistress responsible for a red wool coat, a tweed cape and pair of velvet trousers that come to mind immediately.
I want what I read to have the same depth and interest, the same history. I want to feel its quality.
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