Mood Swings:
Tinkering tailor
It all started with an invitation to a wedding.
And it all ended in tears.
Somebody else's, that is, not mine.
There it was, lying on the wooden table, all gilt-edged and innocent, little knowing what havoc this piece of card was about to cause in my life.
Now, there is all manner of etiquette attached to wedding ceremonies and receptions, and countless tomes have been dedicated to this fascinating topic. But we all know what is really important about such celebrations: no matter what happens, no matter what difficulties must be overcome, no matter how many continents must be crossed or how many bad debts called in, it is one's duty to one's family and friends to be the absolutely best-dressed and singularly most stunning guest at the occasion.
So there we have it. The mission, should I choose to accept, was to find the most breathtaking outfit on the face of the planet and make a grand entrance at my brother's wedding.
I have to say I savoured the moment, dreaming of the glory of it all. I stood there in my living room, rubbing my hands gleefully together and slowly and meticulously hatched a plot that would make me the belle of the ball.
And as we all know, schemes of such import should never, ever be carried out alone. So I rang a friend. "Hey, I need a new dress for a wedding," I explained. "Ahh," she gushed into the mouthpiece, "shopping ... I know just the place."
So the very next evening we headed towards the old quarter in search of the only person capable of coming up with the goods. We threaded our way through the warren of back streets, through the throngs of people involved in lesser missions than ours, and finally we came to the small, dark side street which housed the tailor whose fame had spread far and wide. Standing in front of the small emporium, we gazed in wonder at the creations draped in the window, and in we stepped.
And that's all I remember. We emerged from this strange shop, my friend and I, blinking in the sudden glare of sunlight, mere shadows of our former selves. It was hard to tell how much time had passed; days, perhaps even weeks, had elapsed since we had entered the dimly lit room. Had we been missed? Reported missing by friends and family? No major nuclear strike had been made in our absence? Is Schwarzenegger in the White House already? Ok, so let's just say we were in there for a long, long while.
And sipping a cocktail back on my balcony, enjoying the cacophony of Heliopolis on a balmy, summer eve, the events in the tailor's shop flashed before my eyes: catalogues of dresses; catalogues of galibiyas; new designs, old designs; modern shapes, traditional shapes; frills, no spills; silk or satin; back buttons, front buttons; to slit or not to slit? (sure why the heck not); colours, fabrics, stitching; bags, matching shoes. And through it all the endless cups of tea, the comparing and matching of form and fabric; the measuring and sizing (your waist is HOW big?) and the concentrated look on the face of the maestro, hands just a blur as he writes down the details. Finally, at last and thank ye gods, the deed had been done; the wheels had been set on motion. Liz Hurley move aside, the new fashion queen is about to claim her crown.
Yeah, right.
The creation was due to be delivered to my place at midnight (how's that for drama) on the day of my departure. Running around like a headless domestic fowl, up to my earlobes in wedding gifts, footwear, rainwear (Ireland in the summer) and trying to remember the last place I'd seen my passport, the doorbell rang and in walked The Tailor. And as the dress emerged from its wrapping of tissue paper, I held my breath: it dazzled. Stunning Egyptian design; intricate needlework; definitely a dress to impress.
So all that remained was to try it on for size, and then head to the airport.
Now, I am a reasonable person. I try not to hold grudges, I put the top back on the toothpaste (most of the time) and I can forgive people almost anything except maybe forgetting to come around every day to feed my cat when I'm on holiday. But I can NOT FORGIVE SOMEBODY FOR FORGETTING TO PUT A ZIP IN A DRESS! I came out of the bedroom like a shrink-wrapped squid, all arms, elbows and head sticking out of a single opening, and just as unimpressed.
At least the tailor had the decency to look mortified, said he would take it back, swearing on his reputation to get the dress to me by the 17th. "The wedding is on the 12th," I explained through gritted teeth. "Right," he corrected, I'll have it to you by the 17th."
"Twelfth,"
"Like I said."
And how did it end? Did the days spent on the phone to Egypt as well as every post office in Ireland have an effect? Did the courier get the dress to my mother's house on the eve of the first family wedding in 26 years? Did the van pull up with screeching brakes and squealing tyres just in the nick of time as the blushing groom, best man and flower-bedecked siblings leave the family home?
Well, let us simply say that somewhere in the old quarter of Cairo sits an unsuspecting tailor in his small shop in a quiet, dark alley, blissfully unaware of his impending fate.
I'll even bring the Kleenex.
Al-Ahram Weekly Online : 30 October - 5 November 2003 (Issue No. 662)
Located at: http://weekly.ahram.org.eg/2003/662/li2.htm