Dear Annie,
Once, there was a boy. He was a very special boy, because he loved a girl. He didn't just love her, he listened to her too. The girl's birthday was coming up. Her twenty-second birthday. The boy knew just what to get for her. He spoke to his mum (who was a very clever sewist) and then he went to a little shop, a shop in an old arcade. A shop that sold second-hand sewing machines. In the shop, a lady helped the boy to choose a machine. It wasn't an expensive machine (although it was a lot of money for the boy- he was a student then), it was a simple, classic machine. A Jones 942.

On the girl's birthday, when the boy surprised her with the sewing machine -her first ever, very own sewing machine- the girl knew for certain something that she had almost known all along. This boy was a keeper. He was the boy for her.
The next year, the boy, and the girl, and the sewing machine moved into a flat. The sewing machine made tablecloths and cushion covers.

After a while, the boy, and the girl, and the sewing machine moved into a house. The sewing machine made curtains. A few years later, they moved again, to a tumbledown old house. By now they were a husband, and a wife, and a sewing machine. The sewing machine hid away from all of the dust and mess as the house was renovated. When it was finished, the sewing machine made bags, knitting supplies and birthday gifts.
After a while, a baby boy joined them in the house, and a couple of years later, another baby boy. For a long time, the woman left the sewing machine alone while she looked after the babies. Eventually, she took off its cover again. The sewing machine repair man came and made it feel better. It was put on its own special table, in a room at the top of the house filled with light and sewing supplies.
Whenever the woman had a spare moment, she ran upstairs to the room at the top of the house, took the cover off the machine and began to stitch. It was her machine, and she loved it. It wasn't a fancy machine, but she wasn't a fancy sewist. As the machine stitched, it sang, and as it sang the woman's heart sang too.
Love from,
Laura