A year of Saturday mornings at the monthly mending table

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How the table works

The table is free and informal, with no booking and no list. We put out a tin of needles, reels of thread in the colours that get used most, a bag of patching cloth, a box of buttons that has grown out of all proportion, two pairs of good scissors and the one electric machine that belongs to the hall. The treadle stays at home; it would take two people and a van to bring it, and the side door of the hall has a step. People sit down with whatever they have brought and one of us sits beside them.

The rule, which we explain gently, is that whoever brought the thing does the mending, with one of us showing them how. We are not a repair service, and the point of the morning is that people leave knowing how to sew on a button or close a split seam next time without us. Some people are disappointed by this at first. Most of them are pleased by the time they go, holding a jumper they darned themselves, even when the darn is lumpy.

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What came through the door

Across the twelve Saturdays from last August to this July I kept a rough tally in the back of a notebook. It is not careful research. Some mornings were busy enough that I only caught up with the notes over lunch, and a few things belonged in more than one line.

Seams and hems make good first repairs because they are quick and the result is invisible, which reassures people who are nervous. Knitwear is where people get interested, because the darn shows, and a bright darn on a grey jumper tends to start a conversation at the next table along.

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Zips, and the repairs that go home unfinished

Zips are what I most often have to disappoint people about. A slider that has come off one side can often be coaxed back on, and a slider that no longer closes the teeth can sometimes be squeezed gently with pliers so that it grips again. A zip with teeth missing, or a broken bottom stop on a coat, means putting in a new zip, which is a long job on a lined coat and not one that fits a Saturday morning with people waiting. For those we show people how to unpick the old zip and pin the new one in, and they take it home to finish.

By my count about one thing in six went home unfinished. That is not a failure. Several people came back a month or two later to show us the result, and one woman came back with her coat done and a second coat to start. What we try to avoid is anyone leaving with a thing in worse shape than it arrived in, so if a seam has been unpicked and not yet redone, we tack it closed to survive the bus home.

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What I have learned from sitting beside people

Most people hold the needle too close to its point and pull the thread too tight, which were exactly my own habits when I started. They also tend to apologise for the state of what they have brought, as if a worn elbow were a personal failing. I have stopped telling them it is fine and started asking how long they have had it. The answer is usually a story, and a jumper that someone has worn for eleven years deserves an hour of anybody's Saturday.

The other thing I have had to learn is to keep my own hands in my lap. When someone is struggling with a knot, the quickest thing is to take the needle and tie it for them, and it is nearly always the wrong thing to do. They watch, they nod, and the next time they are on their own the knot beats them again. I now talk people through it, sometimes three or four times over, and the third attempt usually comes right. One of the other two helpers is far better at this than I am; she taught in a primary school for years and has a patience with fumbling fingers that I am still working towards.

The bear, for the record, went home with its arm back on, sewn with a ladder stitch in a brown thread we matched against its fur by the window. The grandfather did the stitching himself, slowly and with enormous concentration, and asked at the end whether we did ears as well. We do ears.