Some memories fade with time. Others remain so vivid that you can still feel them decades later.
I can still feel the heavy, scratchy wool blankets and the frustrating stillness of that darkened bedroom. I was six, perhaps seven years old, and the measles had caught me.
In those days, there were no quick fixes. A diagnosis meant strict bed rest, anxious parents, and a visit from the family doctor. My case was particularly severe. The rash seemed to be everywhere, even behind my eyes. To protect my sight from the light, my bed was turned completely away from the window, leaving me in a dimly lit room that felt very small and very lonely.
I lay there feeling incredibly sorry for myself.
Then the door opened, and in walked my Nanna.
She didn’t simply bring comfort. She brought transformation.
Sitting beside my bed, she handed me a plain cardboard shirt box. It wasn’t wrapped. It wasn’t a toy from a shop. To anyone else it might have looked completely ordinary.
To me, it was magic.
Opening the lid changed everything.
Inside was a treasure trove of folded fabric remnants, colourful trimmings, ribbons, buttons and odd bits of haberdashery. Even in the shadows of that room, the colours seemed alive. I remember running my fingers over every piece, captivated by the different textures. Smooth cottons, textured weaves, snippets of lace, ribbons and braid. Each one seemed to hold a possibility.
I didn’t know it then, but I was holding much more than scraps of fabric.
I was holding my future.
Creativity, it turns out, was in my blood.
My Nanna loved to sew, stitch and make. Long before she became my supplier of magical shirt boxes, she had begun her working life as a professional tailoress. Later, she worked on a market stall in London’s East End, surrounded by the haberdashery, trims and sewing notions that makers have always found impossible to resist.
The very things that filled that cardboard box had been part of her world for years.
Looking back now, I realise that what she gave me wasn’t simply a way to pass the time while I recovered. She was sharing a part of herself. Passing on knowledge without even knowing it. Planting a seed.
Even before I could sew a stitch, I was fascinated by fabric. I would wrap pieces around my twin sister’s dolls, creating rudimentary garments and costumes. Eventually I was given dolls of my own—not to play “dollies” but simply to continue experimenting, draping and creating clothes for these tiny characters.
Saturday became my making day.
With no school to attend and the promise of a family gathering later that evening, there was always something to look forward to. We were supposed to rest in the afternoon, but while everyone else might have been sleeping, I was usually creating. The anticipation wasn’t just seeing the family—it was showing them what I had made.
There was always encouragement.
The two fairies that sat on top of the Christmas tree—one for my sister and one for me. The remnants from the sewing cupboard. The treasured tin of buttons. The patient demonstrations of “showing me how”. The little battery-operated Ronco Portable Sewing Machine I received in 1972. Later came the great promotion to a proper drop-down cabinet Singer machine.
Every step was supported.
Not just by Nanna, but by Nan and both my Grandads too.
When I think about it now, I realise how fortunate I was. Nobody ever suggested that making things was unusual. Nobody questioned why a young boy wanted to spend hours handling fabric, sorting buttons, or designing clothes for dolls. Instead, they encouraged it. They nurtured it. They made creativity feel natural.
And that made all the difference.
That cardboard shirt box remains one of the most memorable gifts I have ever received. Not because of what was inside, but because of what it started.
A lifelong fascination with textiles.
A love of making.
A career spent creating.
And a belief that sometimes the smallest collections of fabric, trims and forgotten treasures can spark the biggest ideas.
Perhaps that’s why, even today, I still find myself excited by a box filled with fabric swatches, buttons, ribbons and haberdashery. Somewhere deep down, that little boy is still opening Nanna’s shirt box and wondering what he can create next.
What about you?
Was there a person, a gift, or a moment that first sparked your love of sewing, crafting or making? I’d love to hear your story.