ON THE BUTTON
The Pedant Class and Your Stars
There were squiggly cards of bias binding, flat embossed tins full of round-headed pins We have been more careful with our haberdashery than we have with our language
ABERDASHERY is one of my favourite words. It sounds warm and slightly scratchy, like a homeknitted jersey being pulled down over your ears. It has substance and rhythm and soul, does haberdashery. If words had smells, haberdashery would exude the fragrance of fresh cotton.
When I was growing up, there was a haberdashery store within walking distance of our house. It was called Stella’s Drapers and it was a place of magic. Down three wide steps one went into a green-carpeted cathedral of ribbons and lace, buttons and press studs and patterns bedecked with wholesome models in impeccable clothing which never looked anything like the end results of enthusiastic amateur attempts.
There were squiggly cards of bias binding — the purpose of which I believed was to prevent frayed nerves — rainbow snakes of thread, toothy pinking shears, a million miles of wool, sewing baskets lined with cushiony satin, flat embossed tins full of round-headed pins.
Arranged according to hue and heaviness in their own sanctuary were wondrous fabrics, impressively tall and of infinite variety. Around them hung a fugue of dye and dreams. The rolls would be reverently lifted and laid on the altar, measured against a metal strip and cut into lengths for curtains and canopies and catsuits.
I had no interest in needlework. I just liked the shop. There were so many things with so many names that could be made into so many other things with so many new names. No wonder the noble profession of sewing has given us a pincushion of idioms.
In the 13th century, “haberdasher” was a surname taken by merchants who traded in small articles. It became a seller of caps and later a dealer in sewing accessories. The origins of the word, like the point of embroidered tray cloths, are unclear. The Online Etymology Dictionary suggests that hapertas might have been a type of fabric in an unspecified language, but no one’s committing themselves to that theory.
English speakers have been more careful with our haberdashery than we have with our language, however. You wouldn’t want to be wearing the same flowered pair of dungarees as everybody else on the street, would you? Yet we think nothing of rolling out the same limp clichés, cutting them into lengths and handing them out free to anyone who buttonholes us.
How many times have you heard or read about the fabric of society being either held together or torn apart? Or about a deal hanging by a thread? Jokes have us in stitches, negotiations unravel, governments come apart at the seams and leaders begin to look frayed around the edges. What a stitch-up.
Whether you hear them or not, pins are always dropping all over the place, contracts are being sewn up, needles are being lost in haystacks, anecdotes are embroidered and people who look or act alike are being cut from the same cloth. It really needles me.
There is nothing at all wrong with any of these expressions. It’s the thoughtless way they are hauled off the shelf and thrown on any old how that is irksome. The reason the old haberdashery stores had dressers upon dressers (as in items of furniture, not image consultants) containing drawers upon drawers of patterns is because no one wants to turn up wearing the same outfit as the plumber. Which was the whole point of choosing your own patterns, thread, zips and particular shade of violet organza — it reduced the odds of anyone else picking exactly the same combination.
The lesson of the haberdasher is simple: Take care when choosing the shape and size of your sentence. Make it out of words that are flattering in colour and comfortable in texture. Join those words together with neat stitches. Add buttons and bows that express your personality. Your readers or listeners will take notice. And you’ll never sound like anyone except yourself. LS