After battling my way to the airport through early morning traffic that was flowing rather like packet custard made with three times the heaping spoonfuls of whatever constitutes the faintly yellow dust that one is supposed to mix with a little cold milk before stirring into a pot of rather warmer milk and then cook until it coats the back of a spoon, I heave a sigh of relief as my favourite spot in the long term car park is available, in a corner next to the fence near the control tower where it is easy to find. How do I know so much about packet custard? It was a favoured ingredient of our so-called “domestic science” teacher in 1972 (along with instant pastry mix, which is basically fat-infused flour in a box that was mixed with water to make pie shells - truly disgusting). I could have described the traffic as moving slower than molasses in February but that would only have made sense to those of my readers who live on the North American continent.
I deposit my luggage and just as I have congratulated myself on getting the timing right so that I won’t have to hang about in the airport too long, there is a text message to say the flight is delayed. And then delayed some more. This wouldn’t matter much if Melbourne airport were my final destination, but given the potential domino effect if I were to miss my connection to Singapore (plane, train and ferry bookings falling in a collective heap the delay makes me twitch. To add to my first world problems, Qantas has (for unfathomable reasons) elected to use an ancient Bombardier aircraft for the leg to Melbourne. We eventually board and after what feels like half an hour but was probably only ten minutes, the crew bid the ground staff farewell in a leisurely manner, give the usual spiel about emergency exits and how to put on the piece of yellow plastic that constitutes a life jacket these days, the propellers send a shudder through the plane and we begin to shudder down the runway while I ponder the remarkable optimism with which the tiny light and plastic whistle “for attracting attention” attached to the life vest are pointed out to us. Who will hear a little whistle above the sounds of the Southern Ocean? Or any other ocean. Selkies, perhaps. Or a passing mermaid.
As the plane claws its way into the sky I hear then inimitable voice of Scarlet in the film ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’ saying “it only goes forty miles an hour”. Meanwhile a small child somewhere in the back stalls is yowling in extremis as its parents have clearly forgotten to offer it something to suck/chew on to relieve the pressure in its poor little popping ears. It is not ideal flying weather, particularly for smaller winged craft that do not reach the dizzy heights of bigger planes. After two hours (twice the usual time it takes to fly to Melbourne) staring out the window at the indistinguishable grey blur my mood varies between considering this the perfect distraction-free writing environment (provided the statuesque cabin attendant were able to bring regular supplies of tea and ginger biscuits :: dream on) or as the possible definition of purgatory, assuming that heaven / hell actually existed in the way that I was taught at school. Purgatory would be finding oneself strapped into a small aircraft grinding its way endlessly through thick cloud. Happily, just as I had come to this conclusion the captain announced we would be descending.
At passport control I place my document face down on the scanner and am given a ‘no go’ sign, the sort you find at the wrong end of a one-way street. After four tries I seek assistance and am told to go and join the queues for manual scanning. I wait five minutes behind a family and then as they are given the green light and I step up to the booth, the operator looks me in the eye, closes their station and walks away. I join the only queue left behind a family of ten and find myself inwardly screaming in frustration. Eventually an operator scans and rescans my document, searches a screen, scans my passport again and then hands it back with glacial slowness. I wonder whether they are trained to draw out the agony of passengers who show the least sign of urgency in regard to making their flights on time.
In the boarding lounge a man walks past talking loudly into his phone (and I quote verbatim) “I need to open zip and get pant off and show you underwear and then you see what I mean”.
Thank you, but no.
At last I am aboard the Singapore flight, and beginning to have more confidence about the journey.
Captain’s announcement as we taxi toward the assigned runway and queue for take-off ::
“We are in a queue awaiting our turn, and people sitting on the left hand side (of the plane) will be able to watch planes ahead of us taking off and also see a few landing too. People on the right hand side can enjoy the view of some cows in a paddock next to the airport.”
I am travelling in a long-sleeved dress made from a tube of knitted silk which I talked about in an earlier post. Over it I am wearing a silk sample of the new iteration of Maiwa’s ‘wayfinder smock’, camouflage dyed in leaves from home. My well-worn ‘wonderlust’ coat completes the picture. Unusually there’s nothing much recycled on my body today (though there is in my luggage).
It’s good to recycle reuse and repurpose, and I have long been an advocate of all three. I will confess though that I still very much enjoy making something for myself from new cloth (like the very comfy dress I am wearing) and laudable as it is to wear second hand, there are instances in which the purchase of new clothes can be justified. In my work with Maiwa I have learned that it literally takes a village to make a garment. Someone spins the fibre, another warps up the loom, then the weaver sits down to their task, their feet in a hole in the ground, creating rhythmic music as they endlessly and evenly cast the shuttle right and left.
Then the cloth might be dyed or printed (unless of course it was woven from yarn that had already been coloured), it comes to the studio where the design team works with their master cutter (Master-ji) to determine the pattern and how it is cut to most effectively use the cloth. The men in the sewing room put the pieces together, with french seams where appropriate.
The garments are then brought to the finishing table in a lovely big bright room, where half a dozen women share a big table, laughing and chatting as they hand finish each garment. The hours are flexible, so that family needs can be attended. The pay is fair, there’s no horrible bunk-surfing, the studio closes for the day at 5 and everybody goes home leaving only the Maiwa family in residence preparing their supper.
Yes, new clothes are being made, but the marvellous thing is that so many people are employed in the process, and that beautiful handcrafts are being sustained and supported because they have such deep relevance to this kind of making.
So these are ‘new clothes’ that I fully endorse, and I am honoured to have a small say in how some of them are made. These clothes last a long time, even with the way I wear things, and then there is the satisfaction of mending them, which in my eyes makes them even more beautiful. Each garment becomes a story that can be worn.
One of the aspects I enjoy about long-distance travel is the chance to catch up on a few movies. Living on the farm I rarely visit a picture theatre, as the time it takes to drive there and back together with the hours spent watching a movie would take up most of a day. So while on the plane I skipped about between a few things, and noted a few pearls. I found “Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood” surprisingly moving and heartily recommend “Umami” (a French-Japanese production) an absolute joy even though watching it for the second time. It’s exquisitely filmed and a good story.
“Anyone can get to Carnegie Hall. You rent it, but then you have to fill it.” Jane Birkin
“I don’t want to eat anything that had a mother” Tom Hanks as Mr Rogers in “Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood”
I budget myself one garment from Maiwa annually, so I have a small wardrobe of comfortable, ethical, perfect pieces, all of which work together. I always feel well dressed in them. Absolutely worth the price.
I'm absolutely thrilled to meet you in Brittany and listen to your stories in person 😍😍