Do you wonder how people live in places which are very cold where winters last for months? I – a chilly mortal who resents having to rifle through the freezer for food – certainly balk at the idea. How do people pass the time when there’s barely daylight for weeks? How did they pass the time before central heating or television, when poverty meant even candlewax had to be conserved (so no chance to knit and sew), a time when there were few or no books?
Sally Magnusson’s novel gives some insight and the answer is – well, of course – they told each other stories: sagas that spun over many evenings. Set in the seventeenth century, The Sealwoman’s Gift starts off in Iceland on the island of Heimaey and centers around Ásta who delights in hearing of heroines who are feisty yet fallible and elves, God’s other children, whose depiction borders on the blasphemous. Some stories feature heroes so handsome that they inspire the odd daydream during hours of drudgery at the weaving loom or during ‘the backbreaking plucking of a thousand feathers’ as food stocks for winter need to be prepared. Asta herself has the makings of a heroine of an epic: she is observant, passionate, outspoken. But The Sealwoman’s Gift takes her on a journey in a very different direction. One summer’s day as Asta is about to give birth to her fourth child, a pirate raid sees her captured along with several hundred other islanders, her husband and children among them. They’re stowed away and taken three thousand miles to Algiers then sold into slavery. If this seems far-fetched, preposterous even, it’ll surprise you to hear it actually happened: Magnusson’s novel is a kind of companion piece to the much-earlier account of his experiences written by Asta’s husband, Lutheran priest Ólafur Egilsson.
After a dramatic sea journey, Asta disembarks in a city that is like a different world. This is my kind of climate (I lived for a year in Algiers and didn’t wish to leave), with an abundance of fresh food and the scent of spices and flowers in the sea breeze. But Algiers of 1627 sees Asta become the property of a Moor Ali Pitterling Cilleby. Once she learns the language, a kind of affinity develops between Asta and her master who is himself a product of two cultures. Their discussions give Magnusson the opportunity to broach topics that still trouble and fascinate centuries later: the condition of being a slave, the differences between Christianity and Islam, the fate of faith itself after it’s most severely tested.
I’ve now read this well-researched and very moving novel twice and will do so again. It’s worth it just for the portrayal of Asta and Olafur’s marriage in its many stages. Olafur, Asta observes, is like one of the puffins that populate Heimaey every year in their thousands: from the back sober and serious yet colourful and comical in revealing a side. But there are many other characters woven into this book as well as themes I don’t wish to reveal. My gift to you is to point you towards finding out for yourself! If you’re new to Icelandic places and names, the start may be a little confusing but there’s a helpful character list as well as maps to refer to (for this reason, the book format might work better than an e-book). And don’t be put off thinking it’s about seals!
Have you read The Sealwoman’s Gift? What did you think? Have you been to Algiers or Iceland? Could you make them your home?
It’s a summer dress but I got lucky! Just as the late spring and summer of this year were unforgettably generous to a London sun-worshipper like me, giving what seemed like weeks of uninterrupted dream weather, so did this autumn bless us with several days when I could wear the dress.
And after all, who still uses tablecloths? My daughter had a fit when she saw one on holiday. “Not wipeable? What’s the point of that?!”
For the bodice I used this vintage pattern which I have always longed to try but I’m always held back by the voluminous skirts and concerns that I can’t pull off the willowy cover-babes look.
So yeah, just the cuffs to attach, then the dye job. I think it’s going to be a stunner. Just gimme a week.
Tomorrow sees the UK release of The Little Stranger, a ghost story based on a Sarah Waters novel of the same name. At the time the book was published I was living in a flat in Blackheath on the edges of Greenwich Park. We were renting the ground floor of what had once been an impressive (but not imposing) four-storey residence, one of many ‘Captains’ Houses’ once linked to the military personnel of the barracks in nearby Woolwich. It’s likely that the aristocratic family who lived in Hundreds Hall, the crumbling mansion at the heart of The Little Stranger, would have looked down on the kind of family that occupied Captain’s House, an attitude that is explored in the novel. But my Captain’s House outlived the dilapidating fate of Hundreds Hall, because once the austerity measures of the 1930s kicked in and families were no longer able to retain numerous servants required for the upkeep of such large homes, the houses in Blackheath were divided into spacious and bright flats and they’re very popular with young families like mine, couples and singletons of every age. Some rent for a few years before moving on, reluctantly so, because in comparison any other home seems rather ordinary.
Then, on super-busy Christmas Eve Eve as we were all getting down to doing some wrapping of presents, my kids – who’ve very cleverly done some of their Christmas shopping online by getting their dad to pay – came running down the stairs: “Mum, this was with the other ones, we didn’t realise it was for you!” My present from Stitching Santa had been in their room for several days, behind other jiffy bags all held together with a rubber band…. Not one but several gifts emerged!
precise stitching.
2016. The year which local readers may forever associate with United Kingdom’s decision to distance itself away from Europe like a small raft with a superiority complex and which will be remembered globally for United States’ election of a president so bizarre-looking, with behaviour so obnoxious, that surely we will be told soon it was Bill Murray all along, giving the performance of a lifetime. Just Hollywood’s little gift to the world, for the next April Fools….
A lot of the time it didn’t matter. I was having fun as a Newsletter Editor for my Athletics Club and writing elsewhere, then in my fourteenth year of running, I started getting a bit faster – not bad considering most runners plateau after a while or have to stop due to injuries.
Another thing that made the year special is that while in Ottawa I met 
In August, I got a brilliant though (again) unpaid ‘job’ as Volunteer Coordinator of one of the largest parkruns in the country. Again, this has led to unexpected challenges, learning and a certain amount of unexpected satisfaction. And then an unexpected blessing. In September this blog did indirectly lead to a temporary job – which is why I’ve kind of been absent lately – for which I’m very grateful. I’m still there now (in fact, I can hardly wait to go back after the holidays just to make sure I hadn’t dreamt it). But I’m working at the other end of town and due to the long commute and my aforementioned finger in the tasty pie of parkrun, I haven’t the time to sew nor to blog, much. My disappointment with the offerings of RTW is as great as ever though! Not one new purchase I’ve made with my newly earned money has been entirely gratifying. And because where I work I’m surrounded by young people, bastards who look good in anything by virtue of being young, my need for clothes that flatter in high-quality fabrics is greater than ever. I can’t actually afford to buy the quality I seek, but I can make it! So stick with me sewists, we’re going places!
Using some old bedlinen I first made a muslin to familiarize with the instructions (there are usually a few mistakes at the pattern-testing stage which is one of the main reasons why some pattern companies ask for testers; and why it’s helpful for the testers themselves to have experience of using commercial patterns). I also wanted to check how plunging that V-neckline is. I think the depth is pretty good but after exposing myself liberally all summer, I wanted a warmer garment so in the grey version the front yoke is 3cm higher.
I’ve made four other changes. I lengthened the hem by 16cm (as with the raising of the 
What I like about this pattern is that it’s nicely constructed (pretty on the inside) and it gives scope to being creative. At first I imagined a mostly black, slinky maxi in viscose, preferably printed with cats or something eccentric and a turquoise waistband, ties, neckline for creating contrast and drama. But you go to the shops and vision is compromised by the fabrics available. This fabric may appear grey and possibly drab, but I promise that if you 
look closely it has sparkle, a sprinkle of a silver metallic. It has a feel of both viscose and wool and was a bargain from Simply Fabrics (which really impressed me with their range this time). It was the end of a roll so I am going to think very carefully how I will use up the last 0.75 metre I have left.
I hope everything else, like the lovely yoke, will detract, though I may just fix.
What kind of a beast* is this? No, not him – I mean the dress I’m wearing.
This pattern, V1285, was a gift from 
I dug out of the wardrobe my 
by the buckle of my belt.
Now the right side looked like this. It was enough to stop light getting through but still those little sunken circles, like a vampire bite in Hammer Horror, bothered me. I remembered one of my many chats with the dry-cleaner (a bit of a mate of mine these days), who told me the Invisible Mender comes every Thursday to do his thing. I popped by to ask about the service but the dry cleaner shook his head. ‘He died!’ he said. My jaw dropped… He wouldn’t be recruiting another. The repairs were costing £50 and people were unwilling to pay, preferring to buy another suit. ‘But how did he do it?’ I asked. ‘What did he use? A machine?!’
This is the result, a close up. I hope you don’t think it looks worse! The area is bigger than the holes but I hope less noticeable. It’s more of a ‘graze’ now and if I wear my hair down it will be in a shadow.