The Incomer

Weaving Part 1

How about weaving? Apparently you can make some decent money at it and it's not that hard on the pedalling. All we need is a loom. And there are single width looms available, and my friend down in Harris says she could nearly take all we could make anyway just to keep her supplied for her crafts. She doesn't make the tweed, she just uses it. There will be training and that, and we'll need to get it finished at the mill but it's another income which we can both do. Time to quit this life of hassle from work, never getting holidays when we want, being mucked about. You know they don't care about you.

It was a full volley that hit me. Proper war time barrage to stop the Gerry bombers. In fairness, when my brain had time to look through the arguments, there was an attractive element. And she was sold. Would mean sorting out the garage. Getting rid of the eight year junk pile, but what the heck, that needed done anyway.

So a little time passes and we visit a friend with his loom. True, pedalling wasn't so hard. I got lost in the terms being used and was blown away by the speed of the shuttle hurtling back and forward, doing something. I wasn't sure yet what that something was, but damn, it was impressive. The talk made it all sound so easy and while I may not have been sold, I was certainly up for a punt.

There's one going. A single. The doubles cost a packet but the single, £300. That's a good price. He says so. The friend. So we punted! I got the report that it all seemed to be there in decent condition. So hey, just need to collect.

I didn't realise there would be so much. And it's so heavy. Cast iron. Solid. Tough. Heavy! And there's so much gunk over it. Fibres stuck on it with bits of unfinished material still there. The thin metal bits that the weave goes through, all rusted and we need to replace. 50p a pop. But there's loads. Now the punt's looking dangerous. Three of us and two wagons. But we got it back. All of it. In pieces. And I had no idea what it's really meant to look like. There's big wheels, cogs, boards. And a bobbin winder. (I thought it was the loom but my ignorance leaps to the fore). Oh well.

Four hours with a pressure washer. My hands were vibrating and still some of the blasted fibres will not budge. Although, I am now intimately acquainted with all the parts of the machine. Still no idea how we put them together but not too worry. They are all cleaned. Shall I sit down and be proud of my work? Well, no. It's half done, it's time to oil the parts.

Another four hours with a paint brush and the dirtiest looking oil I have seen. The £4 rubber gloves from the online tradesman's essentials dealer (and male ego massager) do a splendid job of preventing my hands from being perfectly coated by the gunk. But it doesn't adhere too well to the parts and I end up with black puddles of over invested oil tarnishing my imperfect concrete. But just before the rain comes all is stored inside or else covered with a tarpaulin. It is done. Ready for assembly. Protected from the rust inducing Lewis air. I stand and look at it momentarily proud of a little hard work, then singularly perplexed as to what fits where and how it looks at all.