I can never resist the lure of fabric. Its power to bring the exotic into the most ordinary of places. Swathes of brightening silk become a cascading waterfall of shimmering colour. Bolts of rainbow hued cloth radiate light enough to please the drabbest corners while spools of thread spill pools of shades that make a perfect match when stitched. Voile or tulle lose none of their fragility when placed side by side with heavy upholstery. Bales of cool linen are the perfect antidote to the weight of tweeds. I even savour the names which have been bestowed on fabric colours. Names such as crushed cinnabar or terracotta sunrise.

I trace my fasincation with fabric back to childhood. My mother, hoping to supplement the family income, bought a Singer sewing maching on the instalment plan. It was an awkward looking contraption, unlike its more streamlined sisters of today. It was placed in the parlour - all wood and steel - and occupied the space beneath the net curtains of our small window. Mothers' skills in the beginning were of a more practical nature and she became adept at prolonging the wear in a garment. She could turn the jaded collar of a shirt or, through the refinement of a false hem, add another year to an almost outgrown school uniform.

The last sound I'd hear before falling asleep would be the steady threadle of the wheels as the sewing machine earned its keep. Muffled behind the closed door of our parlour, it was a comforting rhythm which seemed to come from a million miles down the hallway. I'd imagine the fabric inching through her fingers in ribbons of paisley patterned material as she worked in perfect harmony with the Singer. Whatever the enterprise, it was pleasing to know that shapeless bundles of cloth were slowly gaining a new lease of life.

On completion of the work, I would deliver the finished articles to mother's clients. Those long hours she spent at the machine were represented by the anonymous brown parcels I distributed after school. I don't know how she could have made a profit out of this enterprise but our popularity with the neighbours was assured. Also, she'd give me strips of gabardine, or serviceable serge, to stitch into dolls clothes, but I secretly longed for the glamour of softer, shinier material.

This did not happen until Mother finally came into her own, when she began to receive commissions for dance frocks. The older girls in the neighbourhood were working and could afford the luxury of dances and showbands. They purchased remnants in local drapery shops, asking her to convert them into coveted designs seen in magazines.

She seldom let them down, using old newspapers to make. individual patterns. That itself was a feat of engineering, but she had a keen sense of proportion and where the various points of adjustment should be. Her patterns catered for the larger as well as the smaller ladies. Then, on our kitchen table she'd cut out, shearing neat waistlines or cursing the glare of polka dot or stripe. Although she might complain about the flimsiness of fabric, its unsuitability for one reason or another, she did her very best to produce the dream creation.

When the time for fittings came, the young women, who spent their working hours in the local factory, shucked off drab, colourless smocks as if they were shedding old skin. The scent of their perfume, the glitter of sequences of flamboyant trims, was indeed a heady mixtare. All the latest poured from our radio: Joe Dolan or the Clipper Carlton were among the background music, while talk centered on the rustle of taffeta or the wide flare of a drindle skirt, how it might swing for the quickstep. On a spontaneous burst of excitement I'd be swung up out of my chair, a temporary jiving partner, while the soar of a saxophone quickened through our pulses.

Also, an added bonus was that I now had the leftover scraps from these dresses, scraps that glowed like jewels in the box I kept them in. Mother would smile, forging a conspirational bond between us, as she handed me the salvage. Although my mother tried to teach me, I never did learn to sew, being much too clumsy with a needle to ever master the art.

My pleasure lies in the possibilities she found in fabric, how the most beautiful design could emerge from the plainest remnant. Also how the unveiling of the finished garment could light up a young girl's face. Above all, how that Singer transformed the parlour of my childhood years into an Arabian setting, a place in memory where I can go when my own frayed edges need repair.