Oh, Bowie

My dear Bowie sewing machine, how I love you. It’s just such a pity that you only have two settings; off, or ON LIKE A MOTHER FUCKER. This is what comes from naming a piece of mechanical equipment after a drugged musician from the 70s.

If I had to pinpoint an era, I would say my sewing machine would be equivalent to Bowie’s Thin White Duke, albeit in a squat, cream form. On the surface it appears fairly held-together, but underneath the suave regal frame (it is a Bernina after all) there lurks a beast of Jabberwocky proportions.

I should really have named it after a benign and reliable type of person, like Taylor Swift perhaps. Someone clean, who plays an acoustic guitar and is photographed a lot in nature (or studio versions of nature).

I guess the only thing I could ever sew with a clear conscience on a sewing machine called ‘Taylor’ is a sturdy set of chastity underwear. Good thing I stuck with Bowie then. I can safely sew sleeveless 1950s housewife dresses whilst thinking dirty thoughts freely.

Time to grit my teeth and take on the virility of Bowie again. If only I was referring to the man and not my machine. Sigh.