You know when something is past being mended. The thread has unravelled too much. The tear is too big. Sometimes you have to learn to let go. I’m talking about clothes obviously – like my favourite jeans that ripped right across the arse when I was having a terrible day and was late for about seventeen different things all at the same time. This happened almost eighteen months ago and I’ve tried and failed to bring them back to life with various attempts to breach the tear. I know and they know it’s too late – and yet they’re sitting in my drawer like Norman Bates’ mother because I can’t bring myself to say goodbye.
I bought a pair of trousers the other day from Portobello Market and as I put them on for the first time at home, they started to literally come apart before my very eyes. This, I felt, was a trifle dramatic for so early in our relationship. It obviously made me clingy and I wore them repeatedly until a hole had formed within two days, followed by another hole and then the elastic on the inside went and the stitching literally un-stitched itself every time I breathed or moved or thought anything. It got to the point where I couldn’t be 100% sure that they wouldn’t just evaporate or fall off me like something in a Benny Hill sketch right in the middle of the street – so I took them back. Being English and polite, I sort of made it my fault: “I realise they’re not Savile Row or anything” etc. as if excusing the trousers for their failure to stay together, but it was fine because I just had them swapped with an identical pair. Which, incidentally, I’ve only had to mend twice in the last ten days, so this is definitely progress.